The Dexter Show
by Moondancing Millie
Summary: AU. As a cure for Remy's cynicism towards love, her mom has entered her for a brand-new dating show, where there is a hundred thousand dollars up for grabs. And then, of course, there's Dexter, who as host will be pushing all the buttons.
1. One

A/N: Hi, I'm Millie! I'm a new Sarah Dessen writer, but I hope you all like my story. It should be fairly obvious when this is set, but just to clarify: it's before Remy's mother has met Don, before Remy has met Dexter, or even Johnathan. She's just finished with one of the boyfriends mentioned in _This Lullaby_, Peter Scranton.

* * *

**The Dexter Show  
**_One_

"Remy, honey, do you know another word for _glistening_?"

This was unusual. For my mom to be anywhere else but behind her beaded curtain at this stage in her writing was practically unheard of. I knew from experience that in the concluding days of her latest bestseller, it was better to stay as far away from her room as possible, unless you wanted to risk a whole lot of profanities hurled in your direction.

But then again, it hadn't been a usual day for me, either.

"Remy?" My mom, who was still lingering in the kitchen doorway in a flowery kimono, seemed to have noticed my silence at last. "You seem tired. Are you tired? What's wrong? Can I help?" That was so like my mom – several hundred questions at once, talking faster than anyone else I knew, demanding an instant answer.

The truth was, I _was _tired. Escaping the wrath of your boyfriend's other girlfriend – miracle of miracles, Peter Scranton had managed to score somewhere other than just Lakeview - could really wear a person out. But I wasn't about to get into that. For one thing, my mom didn't have the patience. So I just massaged my temples, swallowed a little to ease my ulcer, and said, "Sure, a little. I guess." A vague answer was always best where my mom was concerned.

She remained there, her head cocked to one side, watching me concernedly. "Are you sure?" she pressed. "You don't want to talk about anything?" I shook my head.

"I'm sure," I answered, faking nonchalance. "Just a little boyfriend trouble. But it's all taken care of." Her lips were pursed, ready to argue, but I beat her to it. "He was on his way out anyway, Mom." Her lips formed a thin line, but she dropped it. She knew it by now, as did everyone else. I was Remy: cold, bitter bitch. Not even my own mother could spin it any differently.

"I'm looking for a word to replace _glisten_," she reminded me, as a way of changing the subject. I got to my feet, following her into her room to her desk. Note to self: buy Mom a thesaurus.

"Glitter, sparkle, glint." At least my mom was benefiting from my AP English education. "What are you describing?" My mom gasped theatrically, clasping a hand to her face.

"Melina's engagement ring from Donovan," she replied, and she held out her own left hand, waggling her fingers, as if she was the one wearing it. "I've just finished the proposal – it was so romantic! They were walking by the riverside, and then this gondola appeared - all part of Donovan's plan of course..."

I pulled a face. As always, my mom's latest book was a thrilling romance, a tale of a love that nothing could quench… She noticed my expression, and gave me a sad smile. She knew how I felt about her stories.

"Oh, Remy," she said, and I shrugged.

"Why does it always have to be a romance?" I asked. Personally, I was a fan of Stephen King, of John Steinbeck. No slushy stuff there. "Love isn't something that deserves to be immortalized in a book. It's a con." My mother sighed.

"My little sceptic," she murmured, and she held a few cool fingers to my cheek, the way she used to when I was younger. For a few, blissful seconds it soothed me. And then the vision of Miss Fayetteville winding up for a punch – which I ducked, thank God – came back to me. I pulled away.

"I have something for you, Remy," my mom said, and I stopped walking away. She swivelled in her chair and patted the bed cover. I sat, obediently, and she hesitated. "It's your Christmas present. Do you mind getting it early?" I glanced at the calendar – November 21st. Boy, that _was_ early.

"Um," I began, but she'd already set about retrieving it. I watched wordlessly, as she pulled a slim envelope out from under a pile of papers – mostly the latest pages of her novel – and laid it gently on her lap. She obviously wasn't finished explaining.

"I gave up this year trying to buy you something you want," my mom said, and I raised an eyebrow, "and settled for something you need." Oh, geez. Another pack of batteries. It was the one thing all my previous stepfathers had in common; I had received a pack of batteries annually from Harold, Win and Martin, respectively. _Something you need_, they had said, as they had handed over the tiny package, wrapped in glittery paper as if that made a crappy present more special. I held my breath as my mom passed me the envelope.

I turned it over. The address at the top read _Remy Starr, c/o Barbara Starr_, and then my street name. And then beneath that, I saw with some confusion, was a black stamp, the ink slightly smeared.

**R U 4 REAL?**

"Mom, what…?" She shushed me quickly, bringing a finger to her lips. She gestured for me to open it, and I did so tentatively. A small slip of paper was the first thing to fall out. It looked like an advertisement. I surveyed it quickly.

**R U 4 REAL?  
****NBC's new dating show airs December 1****st****.  
**_**For one girl, there are three guys. Which one is for real?**_

"O.K…" I reached inside the envelope, and found another bit of paper. This time, it was A4 size. At the top, it read APPLICATION FORM FOR CONTESTANT. It had already been filled in. "Name: Remy Starr," I read aloud, in horror, and I followed it down the page, recognising all of my details. "Mom!"

"I think it's a good idea," she replied, innocently. "You'll meet some new people – new guys – and maybe you'll see that love isn't the terror you think it is. Maybe you'll even fall in love yourself!" I snorted.

"Um, thanks," I said, replacing the papers inside the envelope. "But no, thanks. It's very thoughtful, and all, but it's not really for me…" My mom's cool fingers closed over mine, and I looked up to meet her eyes. There was a small smile toying with her lips.

"Remy, honey," she said, calmly. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but…" She hesitated, before continuing even more slowly. "I've already applied for you. And you've been accepted."

"What?!" I yanked my hand out of my mom's grip instantly. "Are you kidding me?" She put me in for a _dating show_? Was she _serious_? "Mom, I know all I need to know about love, or whatever. I don't need some cheesy, schmaltzy game show to tell me that what I've always wanted is right under my nose, or for some corporate TV station to fix me up with my supposed soul-mate, or whatever this show is about…"

"Remy." My mom's voice was stern now. "I love you, honey, but you do _not _know everything about love. You still have a lot to learn, especially if you think that everything is a con." I moaned. "Now that form in there is a receipt. You're the female contestant, and it's all fixed ready for you to appear on that show. Filming starts on Monday."

_Monday? That was like… _I counted on my fingers as my brain struggled to comprehend. _That was like… TOMORROW!_

"I'm sorry, honey," my mom finished. "But it's for your own good."

"My own good," I echoed, tonelessly, as everything sunk in. I was going on a dating show. Me! I was like _Dear Remy,_ agony aunt for all things relationship. I did not need this. At all.

"I'm quitting," I announced, standing up from the bed and knocking my envelope to the floor. "I'm quitting the show. They can't make me do something I don't want!"

"I don't think you'll want to do that," my mom said, and the usual _tack-tack-tack _of her typewriter keys started up again. "The prize money is a hundred thousand dollars." Now that made me stop in my tracks.

A hundred thousand dollars! I pulled a face as I envisioned all the ways I could spend it – a perfectly furnished dorm room at Stanford, a designer label wardrobe, a new vacuum cleaner…

And the show wouldn't last forever. It was only a couple of weeks…

I could feel myself surrendering. I was going to have to go through with it if I wanted that money. I was going to have to stand under those lights, and make a _complete _fool of myself...

Oh, _shit._


	2. Two

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It's good to know the Sarah Dessen board is so friendly. I'm sorry it took so long for me to update, I've been settling back into school. I hope everyone's still reading!

* * *

_Two_

"Are_ you_ for real?"

That was the question of Dexter Jones, frontman of Truth Squad. He filled the entire TV screen, his bushy black curls nearly out of sight completely.

"Remember," he continued. "We have one girl, three guys. And the aim of the game is for the girl to decide which two out of the three guys is playing a game – assuming a fake persona. If she chooses the one who is for real, she gets the prize money. If she doesn't, she leaves with nothing."

The longer he stood there, the more I noticed. Like a ketchup stain on his collar. And the fact that he was missing a button on his shirt. And even that the pocket stitched on is ever-so-slightly wonky…

In fact, it was a relief when the next commercial came on. My OCD was about to kick into overdrive.

Yesterday, when Lissa found out about me being on the show, she just about had an aneurysm. Especially when she found out that Dexter would be hosting it. I should have expected it, really. I mean, she has about three different posters of his on her wall.

Dexter, for some inexplicable reason, is some kind of teenage heartthrob. He shot to fame a year and a half ago, aged sixteen, with his band Truth Squad after they were found playing in a club in West Virginia. Their first single "Potato Opus One" shot straight to number one of every imaginable chart, achieving platinum status. And I know all of this because my friends never shut up about him. Though personally, I can't see the appeal.

I turned off the T.V in disgust, even though the commercial advertising R U 4 REAL is long-gone. It's enough that I'm the main contestant; I didn't constant reminders when I was just tuning in to _The View_.

Since I came round to the idea – or rather, my mom just happened to mention the matter of prize money – I've had to sign a million things. Mostly disclaimer contracts – _**I understand that NBC will not accept any responsibility for injury, illness, or emotional distress I receive whilst participating – **_drawn up by lawyers who use words that are way too long for me to understand, even with my AP English knowledge. So I just signed away. I probably shouldn't have, but it was the easiest way to shut my mom up. I had more pressing matters to dwell on.

Like the fact that today was the day I start filming.

Because today was a Monday, it meant I had to skip school. A cause for celebration for anyone else; a bummer for me. AP placements mean you have to copy up everything you miss if you're absent from the school day. Plus, I was pissed about the daunting prospect of hours sat in Hair & Make-Up (yes, it's apparently capitalized).

A sharp rap on the door behind me sounded, and I swivelled in my chair to see my mom lingering in the doorway. She had a huge grin on her face – unlike me, she can't wait to meet Dexter – and her best clothes. With a sigh, I collected every document I needed, and got to my feet.

"Ready to go?" my mom asked. With the one look I shot in her direction, she already knew the answer.

* * *

"Can you see him yet?"

Even though I had the phone an inch away from my ear, Lissa's excited voice was still audible. It was also several octaves higher than anyone else's within close vicinity, so was pretty distinct. I was standing in the middle of a crowded set, waiting for some instruction, but everyone who hurried past didn't even acknowledge the fact that I was supposedly the main contestant. I was practically invisible.

Even to my mom, who was stupidly keyed up about being on a set, despite the fact that she'd been on a thousand talk-show sets, advertising whatever bestseller was coming out soon.

"No, not yet." Lissa sighed impatiently. I could practically hear her bouncing off the walls. I was under strict instruction to pounce on Dexter the second I saw him, and hand the phone to him so that he could say hi to my friends. In fact, being the daughter of two doctors and therefore required to have perfect attendance was the only thing stopping Lissa from following me straight onto the set.

"Remy!"

I swivelled on the spot to see a short, perky woman with about a gazillion microphones attached to her one way or another head purposefully in my direction. I raised an agonized eyebrow in the direction of my mother, who shrugged helplessly.

"Remy, honey." The woman reached my side and seized my wrist, forming a thin manacle around it with her fingers. I narrowed my eyes. It was bad enough I allowed my mom to call me 'honey'. This stranger was treading on very thin ice.

The woman – who later informed me that her name was Jill, along with the fact that she was born in Ohio, raised in Detroit and has seven kids at home – pulled me down into a hug. I bent down stiffly, shooting daggers over Jill's shoulder towards my mom, before straightening again. Now I was pissed. _Nobody _invades my personal space and expects to live.

Jill's hold on my arm tightened, and she started to tug me away, before an angry buzzing came from the walkie-talkie strapped on by her belt, and she released me at once. I massaged my pink flesh as she retrieved her talkie, whilst shooting me an apologetic look. Though in my opinion, she had more to apologize for than just answering a call.

"Stay right there," she mouthed at me, before disappearing as quickly as she came, throwing herself into the crowd that was hovering around the stage. I released a huge sigh of relief. I turned to face my mom.

"Mom? _Please _tell me you brought my moist wipes…"

But she was gone, and I was still covered in icky Jill-cooties. I groaned, before realising that Lissa was still talking on the other end of the phone. I lifted my cell to my ear.

"Lissa? Hi. I was just attacked by a psycho-techie." Lissa, apparently, didn't seem to care.

"That's nice, Remy. Have you seen Dexter yet?" I ground my teeth in order to restrain my irritation. This nightmare of an experience was slowly getting worse.

"Lissa, would you please just- _ouch_! What the _hell_?" Before I could finish my sentence to Lissa, something very bony collided with my side, causing my cell phone to fall from my hand to the floor, and scatter into several million pieces. "_Shit_."

"Oh, wow." I looked up, tossing my bangs out of my face so that I could glare with full force at whoever had disturbed my conversation. "Are you O.K?"

To my surprise, I saw that it was in fact Dexter Jones staring back at me, and with a concerned expression at that. He was at my feet within seconds, trying to scoop the remains of my Samsung into the palm of his hand, leg outstretched behind him and shoelaces untied. I felt my ulcer burn just watching him.

"No, I'm not O.K." Every syllable was sharp. Sharp enough, I saw with some amusement, that Dexter glanced up worriedly, as if I was going to scold him like a schoolteacher. "That phone cost me a hundred and twenty bucks," I added, hoping he would get the message and just leave me alone.

"Crap." Instead, Dexter got to his feet and presented the fragments of my cell like a peace offering. "I'm sorry. I'm just so clumsy." When I didn't take the pieces of my phone, he stretched out his other hand and offered that to me instead. "I'm Dexter Jones."

"I know who you are," I answered, ignoring his extended palm. "You're the host of this show." _The maker of my fate_, I contributed silently. What did he have in store for me? Humiliation, or education? That was the question.

He stuck both hands in his pockets and took a step backwards, studying me with a chewed lip. "You must be Remy," he said, finally, and he waited, like he was expecting a pat on the back or a gold star. "Well, I gotta say. You're certainly… charming."

I was just working out whether or not he meant that as an insult, before Jill reappeared and grabbed hold of me again. Dexter watched with glee as I was tugged away, face like thunder. He even waved.

I hated him already.

"I see you've met your host," Jill said, staring straight ahead as she pulled me along. "A great guy. And handsome, too." I didn't know what planet she was on, but I definitely wasn't on the same one. The only adjective I could find to describe Dexter was _repulsive._

As we turned a corner into Hair and Make-Up, I was reunited with my mom, who was deep in conversation with a stylist about, I realized as I came nearer, heated rollers. I was forced down onto a hard seat and had a cape snapped behind my neck within seconds before I could catch my breath. It was like being in Joie's.

"Remy, sweetheart!" My mom had finally noticed me. "You're just in time. Your three possible knights in shining amour are due any second." And with that, right on cue, three bulky guys appeared behind her, each eyeing me the same way I was sure I was eyeing them: with caution.

The first one stepped forward. "I'm Jonathan," he said, and he took my hand automatically and kissed it. I tried to compose my face, but it wasn't easy. It was even difficult to decide whether I wanted to burst out laughing or throw up in my mouth the most. He definitely seemed the type who was a total Ken. Then again, he could have been faking.

The second one introduced himself with a simple handshake. He was bulkier than Jonathan, most probably an athlete. On his left hand was a faint indentation, where a wedding ring must have once been. So they're fixing me up with a divorcee. Classy. "Mark," he grunted, before ducking away again.

The third one didn't take my hand at all, which was probably why I noticed his. They were great hands, as far as hands went, and I had trouble pulling my eyes away from them to see him bow his head at me and give me his name. He was called Paul.

"Smile, Remy," my mom whispered in my ear, but I remained stony-faced. After all, any two of them could be telling me hard-faced lies. For all I knew, they weren't even their real names.

The boys were shooed away then, and I was preened, plucked, blow-dried, straightened, filed, polished and painted within every inch of my life in the next two hours that followed. I ran out of gossip magazines to immerse myself in within the first twenty minutes, and so had to wait out the remainder eavesdropping on the stylists' conversations. But considering they spent a whole hour and a half discussing one shade of nail polish, I was pretty bored.

In fact, it was almost a relief as I was scooted out onto the stage and placed into my seat, all by myself on the one half of the set. On the opposite side sat my three choices: Jonathan, Mark and Paul. There was an audible hum of excitement as the director began counting down the minutes till shooting, and I gripped the edge of my seat repeating my mantra.

"One hundred thousand dollars, one hundred thousand dollars…"

"Hey, Miss Anal Retentive." I looked up to see Dexter standing before, one hand on his waist. "Relax."

Yet again I was left without a chance to reply as he took his place as host centre-stage as the lights in the studio dimmed and the spotlights on me and the other contestants. The heat started prickling on my neck, and I rubbed it in discomfort.

"Come on," I murmured. "Start the show…"

"And action!" The director made a theatrical gesture in the air and simultaneously three cameras swerved to focus in on three points – me, Dexter, and the boy contestants. I fiddled with the buttons on my shirt, instantly nervous.

Dexter grinned, watching me, remaining silent to prolong my agony. He knew as well as I did that he should have started the show several seconds ago, but he was paying me back for my rudeness earlier. O.K, now it was officially game on.

Seeing me squirm a final time, Dexter shifted his weight, transforming into peppy host-mode. He shot me a wink, and spun on the spot to face his camera, introducing the show.

But I didn't hear the words. All I knew was that the wink he had spun so nonchalantly in my direction was replaying over and over again, and – to my distress – it was making me even hotter than the studio lights.

If I had thought before that this show was bad, it had now gotten even worse.


	3. Three

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter. Sorry it's been a while, its been tough settling back into school. I hope I still have some readers, and I hope you like this chapter.

* * *

_Three_

Another snigger sounded in my ear, and my fists curled automatically. It was yet another hatch mark on a seemingly endless tally, and I was getting way pissed.

"Remy," Jess murmured, as we walked down the hallway to our next class. "Just relax, O.K? They're only laughing to get a reaction out of you." She was talking sense, and I knew that. It was just easier said than done.

"Why I'm confused, though," added Chloe on my right, "is whether they're laughing because of last night's episode, or the fact that Peter Scranton's other girlfriend nearly kicked your hiney all the way to-"

"Chloe." Jess's voice was hard, and she quickly shut it. "Not helping."

"Hey, Remy Starr?" A chunky quarterback blocked my path as I stopped at my locker. I avoided eye-contact and instead crossed my arms across my chest, setting my lips in a thin line. Clearly, all the rules I had set as to when to and when not to approach me had be abandoned completely.

"Yes?" My tone was clipped, just the way I used it to answer Joie's phone calls. The quarterback didn't stutter the way the customers did, however. He just stayed there, obstructing my locker with this huge goofy grin on his face. Would he just get it over and done with already?

"You looked totally hot last – ha ha…" Apparently, the humour of the situation was too much to bear, and he broke into guffaws halfway through his sentence. Rolling my eyes, I pushed him out of the way with a single hand and began emptying my bag into my locker. Behind me, the quarterback was trying to recover. "Seriously, I mean, if you need a date so badly I'm available…" Another fit of laughter overtook him, and Jess took my arm.

"Come on, Remy," she said, throwing glares in the direction of the quarterback. "_Brady _here apparently only has the maturity of a two year old." I slammed my locker shut, pulling my arm free of Jess's grip.

"No," I replied. "I think I'm going to blow off Calculus. I'll see you guys later. The Quik Zip?"

Jess tried to argue, but Chloe interrupted. "Sure," she said, and she nodded. "See you later, Remy." I placed my bag in my locker, pocketing only my cigarettes, and shut it harder than before, jolting Brady out of his snickering.

"Get lost," I growled, and I set off in the opposite direction I was heading.

* * *

The air was cooler outside, and it was helping me cool down and forget all the jerks who had been jeering and catcalling across the hallways all day. Apparently every single student in the whole damn school had seen the premiering episode of _R U 4 Real _the previous school, and found it hilarious that I was the main contestant.

I slid a cigarette out of the packet and placed it between my lips, leaning back against the brick wall. Sure, the dumpsters weren't the nicest place to hang out – the smell being the obvious reason – but I'd never been disturbed here before. And I sure didn't need _smoking on school grounds _to tarnish my transcript. Stanford was on the horizon, and I needed it now more than ever.

The tip of my cigarette glowed orange, and I removed it, exhaling a plume of purple-grey smoke before me. Slowly, the dull thudding against my skull stopped and I could feel my furious pulse return to normal.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

"Tut tut, Miss Remy. Didn't health class ever teach you anything?"

Straightening, my eyes tipped open and the person I saw standing before me with his hands on his hips and a smug smile plastered across his face made a groan reverberate throughout my whole body. I tipped ash onto the tarmac at my feet and drew on my cigarette again.

"Piss _off, _Dexter."

Dexter grimaced, his eyes twinkling. "Such language," he whispered. "Cutting class, are we?" My lips parted to answer, but he interrupted again. "It's O.K, I won't tell." He brought a finger to his lips, and I followed it with my eyes almost too easily.

Steady there, Remy. He's an asshole, remember?

"What are you doing here, then?" I asked, dropping my cigarette and grinding it under my heel. I raised an eyebrow. "If not to squeal on me for ditching Calculus?" He grinned.

"My job, Miss Remy," he answered, and he began pacing. I watched him through my eyelashes as I pretended to be more interested in my shoes. "I'm here to bring you your first date. And seeing as you're not busy with school or anything, we can leave immediately."

Great. I had to ask, didn't I?

"Perfect," I said, and Dexter's omniscient smirk widened. "Well, lead the way. I hope I'm travelling in style." He offered his hand to guide me, but I refused. A pink blush appeared on both our cheeks.

"Of course you're travelling in style," Dexter replied, and we rounded a corner to see a stretch limousine sitting idle on the sidewalk, the sunshine glinting off its onyx surface. I gasped in spite of myself. "Nice, huh?"

I nodded, and in awe let Dexter open the door for me. I climbed in, fingers grazing the velvety seats. There was a slim TV screen on one side of the car, with a long seat stretching the length opposite. And, I realised as I looked up, there were mirrors on the ceilings.

In fact, the combination of Dexter in close proximity and mirrors on the ceilings was making me feel kind of giddy. And I didn't like it one bit.

"What you thinking about?" he asked me, as I perched on the very end of the seat, fingers gripping protectively around the cushion and nails digging in. I shook out of my reverie – which, I'm ashamed to say contained something involving the mirrors on the ceiling – and let a curtain of hair fall between us.

"Nothing," I answered instinctively, before correcting myself. I could feel myself softening, and this wasn't good. I normally never softened unless I was drunk. "Look, I'm sorry for how I treated you yesterday." He raised an eyebrow, and I instantly frowned again. He was going to make me say it.

"How did you treat me?" he asked, innocently, and I ground my teeth.

"…Badly," I gave him, and he gestured for me to continue. I snapped. "Look, I said sorry, didn't I?"

"And you clearly meant it," Dexter added, and I growled inwardly. I was regretting even opening my mouth. Dexter surrendered. "Yeah, it's O.K. I was kind of a jerk afterwards anyway. It's the fame." He waved his hand dramatically. "It just _gets _to you." Now I knew he was completely goofing off, I shifted in my seat away from him, releasing a deep sigh. There was really no point in being serious around him, I was learning. He seemingly had a lower maturity level than even Brady the quarterback.

"Remy?" After a few moments of silence, Dexter had spoken again, this time a little timidly. I only tossed my head to acknowledge him, and he continued. "Don't you wanna know where this date is?" He had me there, I had to admit. I was intrigued.

"Yes," I admitted at last, and Dexter pulled a face, turning away on his own seat.

"Shame."

Right. That was it. This guy was so going to get his –

"We're here."

Before I'd really noticed, the limousine had stopped, and the driver had appeared at the passenger door, holding it open to allow a small pool of sunshine into the car. I was off my seat and out of the door quicker than Dexter could only blink, ready to be out of his company. Maybe even glad to be on a date.

"Hello again, Remy." My make-up artist was hot on my heels as my feet touched the sidewalk, at my side with a powder compact within seconds. I squinted as she dusted some onto my cheeks and watched through narrow slits as Dexter climbed out of the limousine and beamed brightly.

"What," I demanded as my make-up artist fussed over my hair, "are you still doing here?" To my surprise, Dexter produced a camera – the kind you see on reality shows – and shoved it inexplicably into my face.

"You see," he replied, fiddling to zoom in even closer. "Our regular camera guy's wife is in labour, so I offered to fill in." I harrumphed, and Dexter shrugged. "I know. So inconsiderate of her not to just cross her legs and wait a few more hours."

This date was just not going to go well, I could tell.

* * *

"Dude," Dexter hissed to Jonathan from behind us, even though I could hear him anyway, no matter the volume of his voice. "Hold her hand, or something." I automatically swung my hand out of reaching distance. I mean, there was no way I was going to hold some guy's hand on TV. Sheesh.

But this was how the majority of the date had gone. Jonathan and I attempting to get to know each other – though I still couldn't get past the fact he may or may not be lying to me – over a bowl of spaghetti at the local Italian place, with Dexter shouting completely humiliating tips of encouragement.

"Share a piece of spaghetti! Play footsie!", for example.

Dexter stopped, even stamping his feet, and Jonathan and I stopped in surprise too. "Remy," he said, impatiently. "We're filming here for entertainment. There is _nothing _entertaining about this date. _At all_."

"Shame," I echoed his earlier statement, my lips accentuating every letter in the word. "Because we're at my house now. The date is officially over." And we were at my house. I'd purposefully sped up my usual walking speed just to be free sooner. I turned to Jonathan, and said, "It was nice to get to know you." And then I just stood there, because I didn't just want to like offer him my hand to shake or something, which would have been completely lame.

But it turned out Jonathan had a pretty good idea of how he wanted the date to end, and I remained frozen to the spot as he laid a soft kiss on my cheek, and Dexter zoomed in with the camera, eyes wide. Embarrassed, Jonathan stepped away, mumbling a goodnight, and disappeared into the darkness. But Dexter, of course, stayed exactly where he was.

"Dexter," I said, rolling my eyes. "The date is over. You got your goodnight kiss. Can you please go now?"

As I said this, a large roll of thunder sounded, and Dexter looked doubtful. "Don't you want to invite me in?" he asked, hopefully, though he knew as well as I did what the answer was going to be.

"No," I replied, and I slid the key into the door with visions of a hot, steaming bath that awaited me. "Goodbye, Dexter."

Dexter's face fell, and he packed away the large camera he had been holding on his shoulder all afternoon in preparation to step out into the burgeoning storm. He staggered out into the rain, instantly pelted with freezing drops of water that spattered his shirt with hard, loud slaps. I pulled a face.

"Dexter?" I called, and I pushed my door open to reach inside. "Wait."

And I seized an umbrella – my mom's best, she would kill me if she found out – and ran across my front lawn to hand it to him. He turned as another thunderclap rumbled up ahead, and his icy fingers closed over my soaked hand to take the umbrella from me.

"Goodbye, Remy," he said, his hand grazing my skin a second longer than was necessary, and he put it up, a different kind of smile appearing on his lips. "Thank you."

I said nothing, and raced back to my front door and the shelter from the rain it offered me. But sooner or later my manners got the better of me, and I spun around, wet strands of hair flicking me in the face.

"You're welcome," I whispered into the rain, but he was gone.


	4. Four

A/N: Yes, you have full permission to shout at me. A slow update, I know. But I have some kind of idea of where this going now. Please review, so I have some idea of how I'm doing?

* * *

_Four_

I, of course, woke up with a cold.

If it wasn't bad enough already that I had missed Monday because of filming, and last period yesterday due to pure humiliation, I would now be missing another day of school.

Fabulous.

I sat up in bed, and reached blindly for my alarm clock to see the time. I had apparently slept all the way through my alarm, as the big green numbers blinked 10:30am at me as I ground my teeth furiously. Thanks a ton, Mom.

Right on cue, there was a knock on my door. Apparently my mother had found time away from her busy schedule as bestselling author to check on her sick daughter. I was so unbelievably honoured.

"Come in," I growled, slumping back on my pillows. "You know, Mom, I was totally counting on going to school today…" Imagine my surprise when it was second contestant of **R U 4 REAL?** who came swaggering through my door, instead of my mother. Yeah. Imagine the colour of my face. "Oh my God…" I muttered, and he flashed me a grin. "Oh my God, I'm sorry. I thought you were…"

"Your mom?" he finished for me. "Yeah, I kinda got that. Sorry to disappoint, and all, but I don't look too good in salmon pink." _Well,_ I thought, as he sat on the end of my bed. _He may sit on the end of my bed without asking, but to get into the spirit of the show and everything, he's kinda cute. And funny. _I decided to smile back.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, because, let's face it. Him being in my room _was _pretty random. Considering I'd only ever really said two words to him. And I'm not really the person I used to be anymore, allowing guys into my bedroom without having a proper conversation with them first.

Honestly.

"Oh, you know," Mark answered, and he held up a brown bag. "I brought you soup. I heard you were sick." Now this made me sit up in my bed all over again. Was he some kind of psychic? I mean, I hadn't even realised I was sick until like ten seconds ago.

I guess he saw the look of confusion on my face, and thought he'd better explain. "I saw Dexter in the studio this morning, and he explained what went down last night. You know, you guys being out in the rain." Much to my eternal mortification, I actually blushed in remembrance of his hand touching mine.

God, preteen much?

"Right," I replied, and I tossed my head nonchalantly. "Well, thanks, I guess. That was really sweet of you." I felt myself soften towards him, and even felt a little flutter of the pulse as he showed me another smile. Sheesh, what was up with me lately? It looked like any guy could get that kind of reaction out of me.

Even Dexter. God.

"Um," I said, as I caught my reflection in the mirrored doors of my closet opposite my bed. "I'm probably not looking my best right now…" I gestured to the limp curtain of hair falling across my face, and the shadow of mascara beneath my eyes. "Can I catch you downstairs in like, five minutes?"

Mark smiled again. "Sure," he said, and he got off the bed as quick as he'd sunk into it. "You can blame your mom. She sent me straight up here." Of course she did.

I climbed out of bed – pausing for a few seconds to allow the catarrh-caused dizziness to wear off a little – before running straight for a brush and hair irons. There was so much work to do, and only five teeny tiny minutes in which to accomplish it.

Somehow, though, I managed it, and I swept down the stairs five minutes later looking a hell of a lot better than I did before. Even Mark looked taken aback by my transformation, as he got to his feet as I entered the room.

What a gent.

"Coffee?" I asked, and I started brewing some. We sat at the breakfast bar, and he took off his coat. Apparently, this was some kind of unofficial first date whether I liked it or not. "So, er…" I continued, as he settled beside me. "Thanks for the soup."

"No problem," he returned, and he took a big sip of his coffee. "Why are you doing the show? If you don't mind me asking." Ah, yes. The show. I'd almost forgotten about the damn show. For a moment there, Mark was just a regular guy.

"The show," I echoed, slowly, and I took a sip of coffee to buy me time. "Would you believe my mom forced me into it?" Mark laughed over the rim of his mug.

"Sure, I'd believe that," he said, and he laid down his mug on the breakfast bar. "It's a better reason than mine, anyways." He took a deep breath, apparently preparing to unload some big life story. "I was married, y'know?" Like I hadn't worked that out from the big fat wedding-ring shaped mark on his finger. "And she was having our baby. It was perfect, the best scenario I could have ever hoped for." His face dropped. "But then she left me, and everything was just a big pile of _crap_." Aw, geez. I could not deal with sensitive this early in the morning. "And no-one was sympathetic. None of my team – I was a minor-league baseball player once upon a time, can you believe it? – not even my mom was offering support. In desperation, I turned to an old girlfriend of mine, Morgan. But she was having none of this."

To my horror, he sniffled. But I had to hand it to him; he was definitely tugging at my heartstrings. The poor guy. "I'm sorry," he apologised, hanging his head. "Loading all my baggage on you. I bet it's just so attractive, huh?" He laughed to himself. "You're so sweet, Remy."

I didn't say anything. What could I say, in my state? Thanks to the huge build-up of crap inside my head and nose and throat I felt drugged. My brain was hardly up to searching for an acceptable response.

So instead, I remained rooted to the spot as Mark leaned in to kiss me. I watched in slow motion as he closed his eyes, one hand outstretched to wrap around my neck. And I was this close to going through with it as well, except for this one little voice that crept into my mind at the last second.

"You don't actually believe all that, do you?"

That's right. Dexter appeared on my shoulder as my conscience, whispering into my ear. I could have killed him. Except, you know, he wasn't really there.

"Oh, for _God's_ sake." I pulled away, pissed, and Mark jumped in his seat with a confused expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Mark. This is a little too fast, considering we've just met and all. I think you should go." And I think I should take a paracetamol. "I'll see you later," I added, as he disappeared out the front door, embarrassed.

Aw, crap. I just had a way with guys, didn't I?

* * *

Three hours later, when I was well and truly medicated, I visited the studio to find Dexter. Some part of me had to see if he was O.K, considering it was my fault he was sick. If I had just relinquished that umbrella sooner…

I found him in the editing room, watching recorded footage. It was only when I spotted my face on the screen that I truly realised what was going on.

"You sent Mark to _film_ me?" I demanded, as I charged through the door. Dexter looked over his shoulder calmly me at me, before returning his gaze to the screen with a sneeze.

"Oh, hey, Remy," he said, acting all chummy. "Come on in." I stared at the screen he was watching, insides churning in humiliation as Mark dolled out his sympathy speech. I mean, it had been awful enough the first time round.

"I can't believe there was a hidden camera," I cried, indignantly. "Please don't tell me you're planning on showing this in the next episode." Dexter shrugged, and I felt my temper building further.

"Why not?" Dexter replied, and he found the remote to switch off the screen just as Mark was leaving my house. I had tactfully averted my eyesight during the almost-kiss. "This is character-defining stuff. Remy Starr: girl who leads guys on during their sob stories and then refuses to kiss them." I blushed.

"You had no right to watch that," I snarled, and Dexter hopped down off the desk he was sitting on, holding up two palms in surrender. "That's just the lowest of the low. Lower, in fact!"

"Remy." Dexter sounded bored. "Relax, O.K?" He sneezed again, wiping his nose on his scrawny wrist.

Ew.

"Give me one good reason I should relax," I demanded, but Dexter snorted and turned back to the now blank screen. "What was that snort for?"

"All the sedatives in the world couldn't calm you down, who am I kidding?" he answered. "This is Miss Anal Retentive we're talking about, after all." I crossed my arms over my chest in irritation. There was a line, and he was about this far from crossing it and falling straight onto my fist. But it turned out Dexter hadn't finished. "Anyways, I'm glad you didn't kiss Mark."

Of course, my heart just about did three billion somersaults against my ribcage, despite it being my greatest desire for it not to. Why was he glad I didn't kiss Mark? Was it because _he _wanted to kiss me instead? That had to be it. That _had _to be it. But it didn't excuse why my subconscious had suddenly switched into hormonal overdrive, making me an eleven year old girl all over again.

"Why?" I dared to whisper, and Dexter grinned, getting closer every second.

"Because," he replied, his breath tickling the top of my forehead he was that close. "My dear, Remy, the show would have nowhere to go." That pretty much stopped the sweaty palms and pulsating heart. I mean, God. Who was I kidding that Dexter actually liked me?

And what's more, why did I even care?

With a frustrated exhalation, I turned on my heel and angrily stormed out. But it was tough to call which I was angriest about: the hidden camera, or the fact that I was possibly falling for Dexter instead of my contestants.


	5. Five

**Sorry for the delay. Hope you're still with me, and don't hate me too much for this chapter.**

* * *

_Five_

_"Remy," he said, and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, caressing my cheek with the side of his finger. "Relax. Just close your eyes." _

_I did so obediently, feeling the tension just fall away, as easy as that. Dexter held me in his arms, stroking my fingers with his, our legs in a comfortable tangle. My head was buried in his neck and I breathed him in, revelling in contentment. Blissfully, I sighed._

_"I love you, Remy," he said, and I felt him crane his neck so that he was facing me. I felt his soft lips slide onto mine and ran a hand through his dark curly hair whilst the other reached for his shirt buttons the same time his hand crept up my shirt…_

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

I sat up in a cold sweat, heart racing fast. The back of my neck was damp, and I could see in the mirrored door of my closet opposite that my hair was sticking up in angled tufts, and my expression was one of horror. The dream had been so real, so vivid, so…

_Hot._

I lay back down onto my pillows, my breathing returning to its normal tempo and the thudding of my heart dulling. Reluctantly my eyelids drooped, and the face of my lover came back to me again.

"Get out of my dreams!" I yelled, rolling over and punching my pillow the way I wanted to plough into his face. "And stay out!"

With a groan I pulled the pillow over my head and exhaled loudly. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep now.

* * *

Three hours later I rose from my bed, my head pounding with a brand-new Dexter-induced migraine. Usually I lived for early Saturday mornings but today the sight of seeing a red 8:00am blinking at me on the microwave clock just made me want to crawl back into bed.

_No time for that, Remy_, I told myself. _Lots to do today._

As my coffee took its time brewing, I checked off the items on my To Do list for today. Pick up dry-cleaning, counted on one finger. Pick up SAT prep book from the book store, Chris' contact lenses, pull the afternoon shift at Joie; three fingers.

Stop thinking about Dexter.

By four o'clock, I was back in my car, and I had accomplished everything on that list, bar one thing. My little finger still waggled with the reminder of that dream, and how good it had felt to be in his arms, theoretically or not. I didn't like Dexter – I _despised _Dexter – yet I hadn't been able to let go of him all day. Talinga had had to ask me three times for hot water and gauze, and by the time I'd reached her room nearly all the client's hair had burnt off.

I braked sharply at a red light, and was jolted forward by the force of my sudden halt. Was that the only thing that was going to stop me thinking about him? A missed red light and a head-on collision in the intersection?

This was ridiculous.

Indignantly I reached into my bag for my cell as two elderly ladies crossed the road in front of me. Something had to be done about this insane crush, or else it would get completely out of hand.

I punched in the number the production team at **R U 4 REAL **had given me a couple of days earlier, and held the phone to my ear whilst I released the clutch. The meticulous motorist in me told me not to talk on the phone and drive at the same time, but this was an emergency.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up, and a low voice answered. A tingle down my back reminded why I had phoned in the first place, and I put on my most coquettish voice.

"Hi, Paul, this is Remy. I have something to ask you."

* * *

I checked my reflection one more time before leaving the house. For two blissful hours my head had been free of… _that person_, and I had taken great pleasure in blowing out my hair and applying my make-up. I was going on a date. A no-camera, no-Dexter date. Perfect.

Paul stood on my front porch, looking every bit the male model as I closed the door behind me. It was hard not to swoon as he kissed my cheek lightly, and told me I looked nice. I knew it was standard first-date manners, but he was so handsome he made anything look good. I even took his arm when he offered it.

His car, though lacking the new-car scent I prided myself on retaining, was acceptable, and he let me choose the music. I settled for a local radio station, filling the car with a comfortable buzz. Not that we needed the background noise – Paul was quite the conversationalist.

Before long he knew lots about me – except for the thing nobody knew about me, the thing I was determined to keep to myself. Only the girls knew about the song, and whenever I was with them it always felt like a part of me was vulnerable, like a hole in the armour. I wasn't about to do that in the company of a boy, however nice Paul was.

The restaurant we arrived at was fancy, impressive, considering I'd only asked him out a couple of hours before. I decided I liked boys with connections at expensive restaurants. They certainly beat out lousy musicians.

Or so I told myself.

The dinner date was everything I needed it to be – everything my future dinner date standards had to consist of. The food was delicious but not rich; the service was attentive but not pushy; and the boy was a dream. His laugh tinkled like the glass he poured my wine into, his eyes crinkly every time he smiled. He was talkative but did not incessantly chatter about himself. He knew as much about me as I knew about him. We clicked instantly.

"If I'd have known such a wonderful girl could come of a reality show I would have signed up years ago," said Paul, as I spooned lemon mousse delicately into my mouth. "Remy Starr, you're a goddess."

"And if I'd have known you were so charming I'd have gone out with you first," I returned, my whole body humming slightly from the three glasses of wine I'd consumed. I could never hold my drink.

Paul smiled warmly, and leant over the table to bring his face close to mine. I was just about to cover the final few inches between us to seal the kiss when a flash popped in my face, and I jumped.

Paparazzi.

"Run!" Paul urged, and he seized my hand. We abandoned our dessert as we raced through the restaurant out the door, adrenaline coursing through my fingers into his and vice versa. Wild yells sounded behind us: "Remy, can you tell us what's happening next episode?" "Remy, is he for real?"

Oh, excuse me while I die laughing.

"Can you believe it?" Paul cried, as we separated to dodge the maitre d'. "We're not even celebrities and we're being chased by the press."

"The curse of reality television," I replied, and a cool rush of air met us as we reached the outside. I welcomed it for a few seconds, before Paul tugged me to the right. The photographers were still after us, desperate for spoilers. And we weren't going to give them any.

"Quick, down here." I was yanked into an alleyway, the force of the pull making me lose my balance, and I collided heavily with Paul's chest breathing hard. The paparazzi dashed past us, not even noticing us in the darkness. I breathed out a sigh of relief, and turned to look up at Paul. He grinned.

"Thanks for dropping in," he said, cheesily, and I pulled a face at him. He reached down to place a finger under my chin, lifting it upwards. "Now to finish what he started," he said, and he leaned in. The kiss was soft and sweet, and it was a good kiss – exactly what I needed. We broke apart gently and I smiled.

"I think they're gone," I whispered, and Paul looked up at the end of the alleyway.

"I think you're right," he replied. "Damn. I was hoping for at least one more kiss." I laughed.

"They'll be plenty more time for that," I said, leading him out into the evening sunshine. The sun was warm on my skin now, and I stretched my arms above my head like a cat uncurling from sleep. In a way I felt like I was in a daze. First dates could make or break a relationship, but mine had definitely been a maker.

Paul laced his fingers with mine; kissing them, before pulling me gently back towards the car. And I couldn't help thinking, as we walked into the sunset…

…Dexter who?


	6. Six

**Sorry for the delay! I'll probably be like this till about mid-June but after that I'm free! My fics will be first priority then and I can't wait to get them finished! I hope you like this chapter. I really wanted to step the Dexter-Remy relationship up a bit.**

* * *

_Six_

"Are you _crazy_?"

That was what I was first met with the following morning, as I walked into the TV studio. Dexter, pink with frustration, and right in my face. My ulcer growled at him before my mouth had chance to do.

"No, Dexter, honey, you've got it wrong," I said, and I settled down on one of those plastic dining tables, pulling out a bound notebook from my bag. "It's 'are you for _real'_, not crazy." He made a noise not unlike the sound you get when you pop the top on a soda can, and sat down beside me.

"Paul?" he demanded, and I was just about to make another smart comment before he interrupted me. "Paul? You went out on a date with _Paul_? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I think I'm missing something here," I said, and I began listing the vocab I needed to memorise for my AP French class that afternoon. "When did we become BFFs and need to tell each other everything again?"

"Ha," someone chuckled on my right, and I saw Paul sink onto the seat on my other side. "Remy made a funny." He kissed my cheek, and I saw with some satisfaction that Dexter squirmed.

"Remy made two funnies," I corrected him, and leant in for a proper kiss. It wasn't exactly my normal girlfriend behaviour – in fact, I wasn't even sure I _was _his girlfriend – but something I couldn't quite identify inside me egged me on. Paul was just brushing a piece of hair out of my face before Dexter leapt up indignantly, and huffed loudly.

"Do whatever you want, Remy," he said, sounding just a little bit pissed. "But next time, take a camera, O.K? Now we're going to have to reconstruct the whole thing to catch viewers up, and waste everybody's valuable time." And then he was gone. I glanced back at Paul, trying to keep my face composed, but he didn't seem bothered.

"Take no notice of the primadonna, Remy," he said, and he kissed me again, lightly. "He's just jealous." This made me smile, and I leant away teasingly to return to my vocab.

"Jealous?" I echoed, thoughtfully. "Of what?" Paul grinned, and covered my hands with his perfect, tanned hands.

"Well," Paul proceeded, somewhat delicately. "Of us. We're an us, right?"

Ah. There was the rub. He obviously considered us a couple.

And that meant the game was up. Six weeks early.

I sighed. "Look," I began, and Paul flushed brilliantly. "It's not that I don't like you-" But Paul was already off his seat, shrugging me off like it didn't mean anything. "Paul, wait!"

"Its fine, Remy," he said, and his small voice was almost heartbreaking. "I'll see you later, O.K? I have to go into make-up now." My feeble arguments were futile as he walked away. What was wrong with me? Normally I had the put-downs perfect. It seemed like Dexter had managed to ruin something without even being there this time.

* * *

It was an hour later, whilst we were preparing for the reconstruction of me and Paul's date – Dexter was not, as I had originally thought, joking – when I next saw him. Paul sat across the 'table' – it was really just a couple of crates with a checked blanket thrown over them – avoiding my gaze and fiddling with his fork. I, on the other hand, was frantically trying to remember the general events of yesterday's date. If I didn't get it right, it would just give Dexter another reason to yell at me.

Speaking of, where was he? He had been M.I.A longer than Paul had been, and I knew he wouldn't give up the opportunity to watch me squirm as I had to re-enact what was now turning out to be a huge mistake. I shuffled in my seat, and took a sip of my Diet Pepsi – the studio was a little slow on the whole QuikZip drink thing, the only thing I'd put on my rider – and looked around the set for him again.

Nada.

O.K, this was getting painful. It was five minutes till shooting and Paul _still _wasn't looking at me. I decided to take the plunge, cling to every bit of dating experience I had in me, and nudged Paul's foot underneath the table.

"Listen," I said, and he jerked his head up at my abruptness. "I'm sorry about earlier. I just don't consider us a couple yet – I mean, it _was _only one date. And if I set about dating you now, then the game is up, right?"

He blinked at me as I took a breath – it had all come out in one big rush – before cracking an uneasy smile. "Sure," he said, and relief flooded through me; warm like the first few sips of a spiked Pepsi. "I was just jumping the gun. I'm sorry, too." He nudged my foot back, playfully. "Can't blame a guy for wanting to claim you immediately, can you?"

I smiled, restraining the urge to yak, and tossed my hair over my shoulder in another not-so subtle search for Dexter. Where _was h_e? And what's more, why did I care so much. I had no idea.

Or rather, I had one idea. But I refused to even contemplate that.

"O.K, you guys," said Ralph, the director. He stepped out onto the set, smoothing the checked tablecloth, before shooting me a smile that looked so forced I wondered why he'd bothered. "We're going to try and do this all in one take, O.K? Just act natural, and try and remember as much as possible from yesterday."

I nodded and flinched as Ralph patted me on the shoulder like I was a kindergartener before he stomped away, yelling like hell into the headset he wore askew around his head. I settled for taking one final sip of my drink before settling into place.

"And action in 3…2…"

"So, Remy," Paul began, and I half-wondered if he'd prepared a script. "I'm really glad we did this." He took my hand and squeezed it, just like he had yesterday. Yet something didn't quite feel right.

"Y-y-yeah," I replied, fudging my words a bit as I tried to concentrate on the scene in front of me. I could do this – hadn't I already done it once? I should be a pro. God only knew how many times I'd acted in front of guys before. Lies normally slipped off my tongue like water off a leaf. I shook myself, and tried to get my head in the game. _It's just you and him_, I told myself. _You can do this. Just pretend its just you and Dexter in a room with no crew_.

_Um, Paul._

_Oh, crap._

"And CUT!"

I shook myself out of my reverie, and Paul looked at me like I was insane. "What's wrong, Remy?" he asked, and he removed his hand from mine. "You look like you're a million miles away in that little head of yours."

"I'm fine," I said, distractedly. I turned to Ralph. "I'm sorry. Can we take again?"

Ralph only rolled his eyes, raised his megaphone to his lips (yes, really) and shouted, "And ACTION!"

Paul opened his mouth to say something – no doubt what he had set in the first cut – but a loud banging of doors interrupted him, followed by a very gruff "Woof!"

I turned in my chair to see a dog with extremely matted fur charge onto the set with an expression on his face that could only be described as purpose. His tail wagged unashamedly as he dived straight in front of the camera towards me and slobbered his way up my wrist.

"Monkey!"

I glanced up to see Dexter jogging, beetroot red and out of breath, following the same route the dog had, only to pause before he reached the little Italian restaurant setting the crew had prepared to Paul and I, and place his hands on his knees. "Monkey," he repeated, and the dogs ears perked.

"And CUT!"

This time Ralph got out of his chair in indignation, and looked positively murderous as he turned to accuse Dexter. "You," he growled, "control your dog. You might not realise at the moment, but I'm trying to do my job." Dexter flushed furiously before, carefully avoiding my gaze, called upon Monkey again, who was now burying his nose inquisitively into the front of Paul's pants. Paul, needless to say, was shoving him away irritably with little success.

"Take five," Ralph called, before stalking off in the opposite direction. Dexter leapt up onto the set and seized Monkey by the collar. Paul sighed dramatically and took off, leaving me alone with Dexter who was still giving me the silent treatment.

"Look," I began, trying for the same approach I had taken with Paul, but Dexter talked over me, scolding Monkey.

"When we agreed no leash I thought you were going to _stick by me_…"

"Dexter," I said loudly, and he looked up sullenly, tightening his grip on Monkey's collar. "We need to talk."

"Nothing to talk about," he grumbled, before he got to his feet and began to walk away. I followed him a little too eagerly, traipsing behind him like some helpless groupie. "Honestly, Remy. Leave me alone, I have to go into make-up soon anyways, ready to shoot the whole presentation thing for tonight's show."

"Dexter," I said again, as he led me through the double doors and into the corridor with everyone's dressing rooms, Monkey padding now obediently beside us, and I began to argue with me before one loud, angry voice from inside the nearest dressing room stopped all three of us in our tracks.

"I'm telling you, man, she's harder to nail down than I thought," it said, and I immediately recognised it as Paul's. "When I tried the whole girlfriend thing she looked genuinely horrified." Dexter held out a hand to stop me moving any closer and he pressed his ear against the closed door. There was more murmuring, words indecipherable, and Dexter frowned.

"What's going on?" I whispered, and Dexter shook his head. I fell silent as he listened more closely. I could hear more murmuring, this time from a different voice. I guessed it to be Jonathan's, though I couldn't be sure, having only been on one date with the guy. Dexter's fingers closed around mine as we hovered; pressed against the wall incognito. I didn't shake them off.

A third voice began murmuring now – one that sounded vaguely like Mark's. What was this – contestants' conference?

"What are they talking about?" I asked, and Dexter released a long sigh. "Why was Paul so mad?" Dexter pulled me along now, out of earshot of the dressing room and began leading me back to seat.

"Nothing," he replied, though his jaw was set and there was an unrecognisable expression in his eyes. "You should be back on set – they probably want to start shooting again in a minute."

"Dexter," I argued, yanking my hand free. "Tell me what's going on."

"It's nothing, Remy," he said again. "Honestly."

But something told me he wasn't telling the truth. There was something wrong – something terribly wrong. But I was just going to have to figure it out for myself.


	7. Seven

**Ooh, thanks for reviewing! And especially to you guys who have read from the beginning. This is Chapter Seven, kind of the calm before the storm, I guess. I got a little something planned for the next few chapters, so keep reading!**

* * *

_Seven_

"Ugh."

I threw the latest episode proposal I had been given down on the table we were sharing at Bendo, and took an irritant swig of my beer. All three faces of my friends turned to look at me in surprise, and I sighed.

"What are they asking you to do now?" Jess asked, looking slightly less stunned than the others. She had been the ear for my perpetual moaning all weekend, and had heard every proposal they had thrown at me.

"Nothing," I grumbled, and Lissa kinked an eyebrow. "Except sit on a throne and watch three boys compete in an obstacle race for my affections." Chloe snorted, sending beer foam out of her nose and all over the table. Jess threw her a paper napkin in disgust.

"I'm sorry," Chloe stuttered, after recovering. "It's just… an obstacle race?"

I nodded. "Hence the 'ugh'."

Chloe shifted in her seat before shoving an imaginary microphone in my face and putting on her best TV host voice. It reminded me of someone, but before I could ponder, Lissa had joined in, and her beer bottle-turned-microphone caught me straight on the chin.

"Tell us, Remy Starr, who is the frontrunner for the end of the show?" Chloe demanded, teasingly, and she pretended to have a notepad and pen poised.

"Yeah," urged Lissa, and I jerked out the way as she got overzealous again with her microphone. "Who will you be picking?"

I went to wave them off, but it occurred to me suddenly that I hadn't even considered this so far. They were all nice guys – save Mark's tendency to get weepy and Paul's tantrum earlier in the week – but I didn't yet feel a connection to any of them. Normally I wasn't one to be fussy about a connection –if it led to a physical one, I was happy enough – but if I was declaring my feelings on live TV, I wanted it to be for something.

But I _knew _that none of these guys were ever going to do it for me. And I knew that because I had something to compare them to – some_one._ It just happened to be the wrong someone, and God knew how much I was trying to shake it off.

"Remy?" Chloe pressed, and I scowled.

Lissa pouted. "Come on!" she cried, and beer sloshed all over my script. "We wanna know who to bet on." I put down my empty beer bottle forcefully, and stood up, suddenly fed up. Snatching my script up, I made to leave.

"Aw, Remy, don't be like that," Chloe protested, whilst Jess just shot me a sympathetic look. "We were just kidding."

"Kid without me," I said, stepping over her ankles as I left the table. "I'm out."

I hated being such an ass, but they had hit a nerve I hadn't even realised was there. The more I thought about it, the more I realised it was true. I didn't want any of the contestants – even Paul, who had been an amazing kisser. I wanted someone I couldn't have.

But I couldn't think about that right now.

I let myself into my house – thankfully, I'd only had the one beer so could drive home – to find the mail on the doormat. Obviously no-one had been home yet. I collected it off the floor and sifted through it, till I found something that made my heart plummet.

Report card!

I'd never been a square or anything, but I wasn't exactly an idiot either. I pulled a solid B, which would soon have to become an A if I wanted to get into Stanford. But there was one problem – with the show I had been too busy to concentrate much on homework. School had taken a back seat. But now I was going to pay.

C, C, C, A – miracle of miracles, I'd actually managed to score high in P.E. – B, C… D in World Studies. This couldn't be happening – I couldn't be flunking now. I had to remain in the show! God knows I'd never felt that desperation before, but I knew that if my mom pulled me out now due to bad grades, I'd breach some kind of contractual obligation and my ass would get totally sued. Yeah, I had to stay in order to prevent being sued.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Hastily I folded my report card up and stuffed in my back pocket until I could do something about it. Maybe Chris, mastermind of credit-card keys and lizard feed, could forge an amended one. Then I'd work like hell next semester to make it seem actually possible.

I sighed, before creeping out of the house as stealthily as I'd crept in. This would have to be something I'd come back to later.

* * *

"O.K, people, listen up, listen up."

Pete, the show's art producer, had a voice that belonged more on a Broadway stage than an NBC game show studio. He threw his arms dramatically into the air and clapped three times to get our attention, though the purple scarf he was wearing (it had tassles) had done a pretty good job of that already. Dexter caught my eye and winked once. I laughed.

The three contestants – Jonathan, Mark and Paul – were all dressed what could only be politely described as jungle-wear: brown, velvet loin pelts and a sash of green leaves across their bare chests meant they also all wore identical scowls. Some part of me wished I had a camera to capture the moment.

"So," Pete said, and he thrust me a script. "The three boys are to complete the obstacle race – swing from a tree, paddle across the river, crawl under the bug-infested net and then run beating your chest like a gorilla down the final home stretch – to where Remy is sat on her jungle throne-" I pulled a face. "-and will reward you in order of what place you come. Deal?"

All four of us groaned in response. As far as cheesy game shows went, this was definitely one of the worst. I could already see my make-up artist clutching my jungle attire – apparently a leaf bra and grass skirt – and was not looking forward to when this pep talk ended. Dexter was already dressed in a very tasteful leopard print suit and currently had a middle-aged woman clucking round him with a make-up brush to shape his complexion. I saw him roll his eyes and I smiled to myself.

"You have ten minutes till shooting. Quiet in the studio now as Dexter records his bit!" Dexter obediently took to the stage and shifted his cue cards in his hands whilst I shuffled over to the make-up department and sullenly stepped into my grass skirt. Great. I was going to make an even bigger fool of myself.

"Welcome to _R U 4 Real_ and tonight's jungle-themed event. Boy do we have a roaring night for you! You're going to go ape as our three boys compete for the affections of our jungle queen, our very own Remy Starr…" I cringed at all the Amazon-imagery and closed my eyes as the make-up artist applied some eye shadow. She thought I hadn't seen what shade, but I had. All too well. I was definitely wiping that off before I set foot on that stage.

Dexter finished recording – ever the pro, he did it in one take – and the techies all dressed in black started to set up the studio for the obstacle race. They had already installed the "river" – a leaf-infested swimming pool – earlier that day and now began laying down the net on top of the green felt that was to act as grass. Dexter came wandering over as I was having the finishing touches done to my lipstick and surveyed me in my leaf bra before bursting out laughing.

"Nice," he said. "Leaves a lot to the imagination."

"You can talk," I quipped, gesturing to his suit. "Mr. King-of-the-Jungle."

"Ah." Dexter grinned cheesily. "That quite obviously makes you my queen."

"Nope," I scolded him, and gestured to Jonathan, Mark and Paul. "I'm still searching for my consort." Dexter laughed again and smoothed his suit, sticking his chest out like a baboon.

"Well," he said, before disappearing. "Good luck finding him."

The race was eventful, with Mark not making it even to the "river" – having dislocated his shoulder during the swing – and Paul receiving a particularly nasty bite off an apparently poisonous bug in the net (an assistant was fired). It was Jonathan who won, beating his chest like the gorilla he should be, pink and out of breath. He fell on his knees before me, panting heavily. And oh, how I welcomed him.

"Congrats," I said, leaping out of my throne and collecting the wreath I was forced to bestow upon him. "You win." And then, as was dictated, I gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. He actually blushed. Sheesh.

"Thanks," he said, beaming, and Pete yelled cut. Mark came limping over – though it was his shoulder that was looking a bit swollen and not his leg – and Paul appeared eventually, sporting a large plaster on his left bicep. Here were my subjects, loyal and waiting.

And I didn't want any of them. I nodded politely and them before walking off set and lifting my grass skirt above my ankles to walk down the steps. Dexter pretended to faint as I came into view, and chewed on one of the many donuts he was supplied in his dressing room. No fair.

"Oh, my," he mocked. "Thy lady showeth me her ankles." I swatted him away, and settled beside him, sighing. "How did the obstacle race go?"

"Jonathan won," I informed him, and he looked amused.

"You sound disappointed," he remarked, and I didn't answer. Before I knew it, he was on his knees like Jonathan had been and tugging at my grass skirt. "Please, Remy," he pretended to beg, and I looked around in alarm to see if we had any spectators. "Please be mine, oh Jungle Queen."

"Dexter," I hissed. "Quit it."

"How charming," he replied, and finished his donut. "You're embarrassed to be around me."

"No," I argued, but he interrupted.

"Fancy being embarrassed by me tomorrow night?" he asked. I blushed a furious pink. "I have a band thing to go to – something Ted got me into – and I need a pretty girl by my side to swat off the fangirls. Think you're up to the challenge?"

Never before had I allowed someone to refer to me as 'a' anything, but there was something in his playful tone that warned me not to decline. Or maybe it was the fact that my heart was pounding faster than it had ever pounded. In any case, I smiled coyly at Dexter and said, "Sure."

This time his grin was bigger than ever, and showed all his teeth. "Awesome," he said. "See you around, jungle cat."

And then he was gone. But, I thought with a joyful pang, not for long. I would see him soon. And now I was counting down the seconds.


	8. Eight

**O.K, I'm free from exams! It took me a little while to write this (I've been as lazy as hell!) but it's here now. I'm away for a week in Italy (woo!) but I hope you like this chapter as I certainly do. The Remy/Dexter fluff we've all been waiting for. Enjoy..**

* * *

_Eight_

"So," Lissa remarked, as I stood in front of my mirror with two different outfits clutched to my chest. "What does one wear to a red carpet event?"

My wardrobe etiquette always fascinated Lissa; I had been her consultant on more than one occasion. The perfect dump-suit? Come to me. Tonight's the night? I'm your gal.

But I was having particular trouble tonight with my date with Dexter looming on the horizon. I was trying to avoid the word 'date' completely – it implied something normal, something I was used to. Something I could look up in my date-o-paedia to research the natural response. But there was nothing uniform about this – this independent music awards ceremony that _I _was attending – least of all the butterflies I was getting in my stomach.

"I don't know." I admitted defeat at last, and Lissa grinned, throwing me the svelte black dress I had laid out on my bed an hour ago. "Really? This one?"

"Yes," Lissa told me, and she took a drag of her cigarette. "You're going to look great. _You'll_ be great. Why are you so worried? It's just a date." There it was again. _Date. _I had _dated_ every Saturday night since I turned thirteen, so why did I care?

I knew the difference between tonight and any other night, though the truth scared me. I didn't want to think about how I was beginning to feel about Dexter, not now. The show was winding to a close, and this Saturday I had to eliminate one contender.

Unfortunately, there was no option to eliminate all three.

I slipped into the dress and Lissa sat me down, attending to my hair with a flat-iron whilst I debated lipstick. I normally left off lipstick, anticipating some serious lip action during the course of the evening. My type of guy was never the most thrilling conversationally, so what else was there to do?

Except Dexter and I had never had that problem – there had always been something to talk about. And was I even considering kissing him anyway? I already knew that it was a band thing, he'd already told me, and I was the girl to fill in his date spot. There would be no kissing, no footsie under the table, no getting to second base in the back of the car as we said goodnight.

So why was I so disappointed?

Lissa saved me from answering that question, however, as she seared the top of my ear with the flat-iron. I yelled out more in anguish over my internal debate than anything else, though Lissa's reflection in the mirror looked alarmed, and then apologetic. My lips twisting into a scowl and fumbled for some base coat and began painting my nails to occupy my mind.

It didn't work.

"Remy?" Lissa asked after a while, and she smoothed a piece of hair over my burnt ear. "Are you O.K?"

"Yes," I lied, but I answered too soon. The sharpness in my tone caused her to raise an eyebrow. "I'm fine," I added, to cover all bases.

"You're nervous," Lissa accused, and I spotted some amusement playing on her lips. "You're freaking out about your date with Dexter because you're beginning to have real feelings for him and that scares you."

"It does _not_," I argued, irritably, and I stood up, pulling my hair out of Lissa's grasp. "I mean, I _am _not. I do not like Dexter and I never will. I'm just going because he asked me and he's the host and it's a good idea to keep the host of the show on your good side…"

"Sounds like you've done a thorough job of considering the pros and cons," she said. "Remy, it's O.K. if you like him, you know. It means the show has done its job – it's convinced you to give your heart to someone, finally!"

Wrong thing to say.

"Lissa, get out," I ordered, angrily. "This is my business, and it was a mistake to ask you to help me."

Hurt flashed across her face, but she stood up quickly to face me. "Remy Starr," she said. "You just can't handle that you've fallen in love with Dexter. Remy Starr, cool and calculating dating expert has broken her own rules and now, for once, she doesn't know what to do. You want some advice?" As Lissa's voice rose several decibels, it also jumped an octave. "Follow your heart. It might not be the _Remy _thing to do, it might not be in your hard-to-get manual, but it's the _right _thing to do, Remy. Believe that."

"Out," I said again, and I accompanied it with a jab of my index finger. "I mean it, Lissa."

And she left, but it wasn't silent after she did. My thumping heart was louder than ever.

* * *

Dexter picked me up at dead-on seven, ringing the doorbell just as I had fastened the last clip in my hair. I picked up my clutch and opened the door, that blast of cool air very welcome on my flushed cheeks.

"Wow," Dexter said, appraising my ensemble. "You're beautiful." He offered a hand to help me down the doorstep. "But then, we already knew that."

To my eternal shame, I blushed, and even more so as he winked at me through the window as I settled into the passenger seat. Steady, I warned myself. It was going to be a long night if already I was weak at the knees.

"So, this is your car?" I asked, flicking back to the very early pages of my date-o-paedia, published during a time when the only thing I knew boys liked was cars. I cringed as soon as I said it.

Dexter looked amused, but he didn't question my random question. Instead, he answered it. "Yeah," he said. "I know it's a little beat-up, but I like to keep it. It was the first thing I ever bought with my Truth Squad earnings." Well, that was cute. And I couldn't fault the interior – it had been vacuumed within an inch of its life. Somebody had obviously warned him about my crazy cleanliness issues.

"But don't worry," he continued, shooting a goofy smile my way, before speaking slowly, like a caveman. "We ride in limo soon. Remy likes limo."

I smiled weakly, but that was it. At this moment in time, I didn't trust myself with words.

We arrived at what I could only assume was his flat, to find the rest of the band members waiting for us. The tallest, Ted – Lissa had, quite regularly, pointed out the members of the band on her A3 poster – was tapping his foot impatiently and he pointed sharply to his watch as we came to a stop.

"Just a warning," Dexter said, as he lifted the handbrake. "Ted's an ass."

The limo rolled round just as we got out of the car, and Dexter closed warm fingers around mine. I looked up to smile gratefully at him, and he pulled me tighter. It was nice, feeling his body heat against me, and for a moment I forgot the show and everything else.

Until John Miller – though I always thought he should be called Ringo – another guy from the band, jabbed a finger in my face and yelled, "You're the _4 REAL_ girl!"

Aw, jeez, I thought, at the same time that Dexter said "Aw, crap, John Miller." I glanced at him in surprise, and he misinterpreted my expression as he amended, "I mean aw, _crud_." Then he nudged John Miller in the ribs. "Mind your language, man; we got a girl in the car tonight." John Miller shot me a "well, whatcha gonna do?" look before clambering into the back of the limo, drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. Dexter offered me his arm to help me into the limousine, and I settled beside Lucas, feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

"You O.K?" Dexter asked, taking my hand again. I didn't pull away.

"So," Ted said, slouching back against the seat with a half-empty flute of champagne. "How's the show going? Dexter told you the biggest twist yet?"

"Biggest twist?" I echoed, whirling around to face him in surprise. "What twist?"

Dexter looked alarmed. "Remy doesn't want to talk about the show tonight," he announced to everybody else, but I remained indignant in my pose. "Really."

"Dexter," I pressed, and I refused the champagne he pushed towards me. "What twist? Is it a good one?"

"Remy." Dexter glared at his band mate. "I really can't tell you. I'm sorry." He lowered his voice as he squeezed my hand. "Really, I am, but I risk my whole position if I let it slip." I sat back in my seat, dejected, and crossed my arms over my chest sulkily. This evening was slowly going downhill.

There was a red carpet, believe it or not, and I posed wordlessly for photos with Dexter – as well as photos alone, believe it or not the paparazzi actually called for it – before he led me silently into the building. And breathe.

"All _right_," said Ted, as he took the chair opposite me. It was my luck that we had a round table, and he was directly across from me. "Name tags. _Sweet_."

Dexter pulled my chair out and I sat down, nodding only slightly in acknowledgement of his gentlemanly behaviour. He was acting awfully date-like considering this was _not _a date.

It wasn't a date, was it? I was beginning to lose focus.

"I'll be back now," he said in my ear, and I felt a flush run up my neck. Ted leered at me over the rim of his glass, watching curiously as I fanned myself with my fingers. Oops.

"So Remy," he said, settling his glass down on the table. "Dexter's a great guy, huh?"

"Sure," I replied, nonchalantly. "He's a great host. Has a way with the audience." Stick to neutral topics, that was the key.

"Yeah." Ted didn't seem to be listening. "So, are you bummed?"

Bummed? About what? Did Dexter have a girlfriend? Why would I be bummed by that? Why would I even think that?

"Bummed?" I said out loud, trying to keep track of my inner and outer speech.

"Mmhmm." Ted took another sip. "About all three guys on the show being fake, I mean. Must suck to know you're fighting a losing battle." Wait. What?

The surprise must have shown on my face, since Ted added – completely deadpan, might I add – "What, Dexter didn't tell you that, either? I mean, I knew he wanted to keep the big twist from you… oh, wait." He snapped his fingers, keeping up his false innocence. "That _was _the big twist. My bad."

"Ted," John Miller said, shaking his head. "Shut up." He turned to me. "Remy, it's not true, honestly…" But it was too late. I had already got off my chair and was heading out of the room, in the direction Dexter had left. But I didn't want to see him now, not now not ever. He had _lied _to me; he had kept this from me – all for my humiliation! And I had _trusted _him, even! Liked him!

That was the truth, coming out at the ugliest of times and from the ugliest of places: the truth about the gameshow coming from Ted, the truth about my feelings for Dexter coming with my tears.

Tears. I was crying.

I put a hand over my mouth and sobbed, one big heave that shook my whole body.

"Remy?"

Dexter. I looked urgently for a place to hide, and pulled open a janitor's closest, jamming the door shut in anguish. Another sob, a howl. I couldn't believe it. I hated crying.

I stood against the door, trying to catch my breath. But I didn't have long. Soon Dexter's fists were pummelling the door, demanding entry.

"Remy! Let me in! What's wrong?"

I threw my head back, a loud thunk echoing through the tiny closet. "What's wrong?" I hissed, wiping another tear away roughly and watching the mascara smear across my palm. "What's wrong is that I'm an _idiot._ Ted told me everything."

"Ted." I heard the anger in his voice even through the door. "I told you Remy, Ted's an ass. Please let me in, please."

Reluctantly, I eased the door open, and Dexter slid in, pulling on the cord to illuminate the room. He ran a hand down my arm comfortingly, and stroked my hair. "I'm sorry, Remy," he said. "I wanted to tell you, I did. But I was sworn to secrecy, my contract depends on it."

"How long have you known?" I asked.

"Since we heard them talking a couple of weeks ago," he admitted, and I stifled a sniffle. "I was the last to know, can you believe it?"

"Second to last," I said, and he pulled me in to hug me, wrap his arms around me and hold me till my head stopped thumping. I didn't normally let anyone get this close, but it was hard not to enjoy the warm and the comfort. He smelled so good, and – I might as well admit it again – I liked him.

"I wish we weren't part of this show," Dexter whispered, and his voice reverberated all up his body. "I wish we were two people who had met somewhere else and could be together." He sighed, and he pulled me underneath his chin.

"Me too," I said, and I extracted myself from his grip. And then I reached up to cup his chin in my hands, and pulled his face closer to mine. And then I kissed him, lip-to-lip.

Heart to heart.


	9. Nine

**Nine**

"I wish that we could stay like this forever."

It was becoming increasingly frequent, Dexter voicing what I was thinking. We sat now, on the floor of the closet, his arms around me and my head on his shoulder. It was perfect, this tiny piece of privacy, but he knew as well as I did that it wasn't going to last for long. In just under fifteen minutes Dexter had to present an award on stage, but I was trying not to think about that.

I looked up and kissed him again, stretching an arm around his neck and pulling him closer. I had to make this last, these last few minutes we'd have together. After this, we couldn't be anything but friends, not whilst I was still on the show and he was still host. It put both our positions in jeopardy. Lissa would say it made things exciting, dramatic. I would say it made things complicated.

A loud bang at the door broke us apart, and one look at Dexter told me our time was up. This was no doubt his bandmates, come to take him backstage. He squeezed my hand and helped me up, holding me in his arms one last time. I closed my eyes as we stepped away from each other.

"Hi, guys," Dexter said, as he opened the door to John Miller. Lucas was leant against the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette; whereas Ted was skulking somewhere almost out of sight – down the end of the corridor. "Well, I guess its show time."

John Miller clapped him on the back. "Good luck, man," he said, before winking at me. "Alright there, Remy?" Everybody had pointedly ignored the fact that Dexter's hand was in mine, but John Miller's wink said everything. I gave a weak smile.

"I'll see you later," Dexter whispered in my ear, before kissing my cheek. And then, like a magic trick, he disappeared behind the scenes. It was hard watching him go, as well as feeling cold, harsh reality come crashing back down onto my shoulders. I had given him my heart, but now I was going to give him my support.

We turned to enter the awards hall again, but Ted's low and gravelly voice stopped me from taking another step.

"Wait there, Remy," he said, and the others looked at him in confusion. "I want to talk to you… apologise." John Miller glanced at me for approval, and I shrugged.

"See you in there, then, Remy," he said, before disappearing with Lucas back into the hall. The lights were dimming, ready to bring the show back from its intermission. I sighed.

"In here," Ted said, pointing into the closet. I didn't really want to return, not with Ted, not now it meant nothing to me without Dexter. But I didn't want to cross Ted, so I followed him in.

Big mistake.

"So," Ted continued, fingering a mop as if it actually held his interest. "How many guys you got on the go now then, Remy?" I actually recoiled as he said this, stung by the accusation. What was he on about?

"What?" I asked, and he turned to put those sharp eyes on me.

"You know," he said, and he dropped the mop. "The three guys from the show, Dexter… you got anyone else lying around?" The glint in his eye suggested he was feeling optimistic.

"That is none of your business," I stammered, as he edged ever closer. "I think we should join the awards ceremony now, Ted."

"You think I don't know about the kind of girl you are?" he asked, and my heart plummeted. "I hear things; I got friends at your school. Remy Starr, easy lay, I heard all about it." I felt like I'd been slapped. "You don't want to be with Dexter, you don't want to hurt him with all your crap." He got even closer. "I, on the other hand…" He trailed off as he pressed his lips to my neck. I felt sick, and shoved him off.

"Get _off _me-" I tried to make my great escape but he seized my wrist and held me against the wall.

"Come on, Remy," he said into my hair as I tried to squirm out of his grasp. "I'm sorry I told you the big twist or whatever, but at least let me make it up to you…"

"Dexter!" I screamed, but he clamped a hand over my mouth. I tried to make as much muffled noise as possible, but it was hard to without breathing in the sickening stench of beer coming from Ted's sweaty palm. Eventually, I was left with only one other option. A swift kick between the legs and Ted fell to the ground, groaning.

"You're gonna be sorry for that, Remy Starr!"

And then I ran for my life.

* * *

I knew by now that it took seven rings before my phone automatically went to answering machine. I had been laying in bed all day without picking up my phone, barely listening to the inane messages people left me. They all meant nothing.

"Hey hon, this is Lissa, how did your date go?"

"Remy Starr, you owe me ten bucks. Get your ass out of bed and call me, Chloe."

"Remy? Where did you take off to last night? Call me, I'm really worried." Dexter.

"Remy Starr, we need to come down to the studio as soon as you can, this is urgent."

I ignored them all.

I didn't want to leave my bed, not with the possibility of running into Ted or worse, running into Dexter and having the weight of what had happened resting on – digging into – my shoulders. My room was the safest place I could be right now.

But not the quietest, apparently, as my mom suddenly came barraging into my room clutching her favourite tabloid, her face screwed up in confusion-meets-irritation.

"Remy Starr!" she accused me, as she sat down on my bed and jabbed a finger in my direction. "Why didn't you tell me about you and Dexter?"

_What?_

Which was exactly what I said to her once the words had fully caught up with my mouth. She promptly turned her magazine around and I saw with a mix of horror and surprise that the headline said:

_**REMY AND DEXTER: THEY'RE 4 REAL!**_

This was accompanied by a very cleverly photo-shopped image of the two of us.

I flicked through the magazine to find the article, and there it was, the full story. How we'd met, and how last night at the music awards we had 'finally realised how we felt'. That was a direct quote. The author had evidently embellished for dramatic effect.

"How on earth did she know all these things?" my mom questioned aloud, as she flicked through it all. She was over the moon, satisfied as Lissa was that the show had done its job – I had finally given my heart away, to use their own words. In response to her query, I knew exactly where the information had come from. And he was going to pay.

But first, I had to warn Dexter.

* * *

It was as I was running high speed from the parking lot to the studio front doors that I realised for the first time what Dexter had truly done to me. Any other day I would have tended to my bedhead hair, applied three coats of mascara and a coat of foundation, before even considering leaving the house. Today I was wearing yesterday's jeans, my pajama top, and mismatched shoes, all thrown in a desperate attempt to get out of the house sooner. I hadn't even touched my hair.

And my heart was pounding, not because of the thought of my appearance, but because of what Dexter would say when I told him our secret was out, and that his best friend had betrayed him. My heartbeat got louder as I ran through the studio corridors, my heels clacking on the cold tile and my hair flailing behind me.

_Dexter… Dexter…Dexter…_

"Remy?"

Dexter.

"Dexter!" I cried, and I took hold of him, my hands cupping his elbows as he pulled me into an embrace. "Dexter, quickly, I have to tell you-"

"I know already," he said, his expression unreadable. "And the station manager is looking for you so she can talk to both of us together. This is bad, Remy, this is really bad." My heart took an almighty leap into my mouth and I clung to him tighter. His fingers wove between mine as he took me in silence up the corridor to where our fate would be waiting. Three knocks on the oak door, the door opened. And the station manager, Zelda, was there before us, leaning against the desk with her chair and the Venetian blinds behind her, a sour look on her face.

"Close the door, Dexter."

He did as he was told, not once letting go of my hand. Zelda didn't look up the whole time. Only once he had returned to his original position did she turn around to her desk and present us the magazine, the same one my mother had shown to me.

_**THEY'RE 4 REAL!**_

Every syllable punctured me as I followed the print with my eyes.

"Well?" Zelda demanded, her thin voice reedy. "Is it true?"

"Zelda-" I began, but Dexter, squeezing my hand tightly, interrupted me.

"It's true that Remy and I kissed last night, but I take full responsibility for it. I pushed her into it, Remy is completely innocent. It should never have happened." And he let go off my hand.

What was he doing? I had kissed him!

"We all know _that, _Dexter," Zelda responded. "It was a completely reckless mistake; I think we can all agree. It was foolish of you to let it be picked up by the paparazzi."

"I agree, Zelda. It wasn't worth threatening the show's premise." This hurt. We weren't worth his career, was that was he saying? I inhaled deeply, trying to work it out in my head. I had given him a small piece of me, releasing for a second the hard shell I kept firmly wrapped around me. But it had been a mistake, clearly. And it was too late to fix it. As Dexter kept talking, I kept crumbling.

"Well," Zelda continued, clearly satisfied. "I'm afraid one of you will have to leave the show. It's the only way to keep a firm foundation on the television show."

Dexter nodded. "Of course."

Another ripple of wicked realisation washed over me, and I cleared my throat, ready to step in. I'd leave, of course I would. I didn't want to stay here any longer, not when Dexter – the only thing tying me to it anyway – was not who I'd thought he was.

"I'll give you my formal resignation as soon as I can." I gasped aloud. Coward. He was leaving as fast as he could so that he wouldn't have to face me. He knew how pissed I was, how much it had meant that I had given him what I had given in – some insight into my soul. I hated him, I hated him.

And I had been so close to saying the opposite.

"Thank you, Dexter," Zelda replied. She hadn't once glanced at me, and in my state of hatred-infused shock I wondered if I was invisible. "I'll need you to make a public statement later today declaring that the whole incident was a mistake, if you will. We need to collect what's left of our viewers."

And then Dexter was gone, just like before, without another word, as I was left standing in the aftermath. Dexter was gone, and my whole renewed belief in love shattered. The show had been called _**R U 4 REAL? **_but in the end nothing had been real. I had been played, and as the tears began to fall I thought back to my bed, where I had started the day, and promised myself that that was where I would stay.


	10. Ten

**I realised I haven't put a disclaimer in this story yet. O.K, I don't own any of the characters in **_**This Lullaby **_**(or Mark, who I've borrowed from **_**Keeping the Moon**_**, or Olivia, who features in this chapter and I've borrowed from **_**Lock and Key**_**). I only own the plot. Okies?**

* * *

**Ten**

"Remy?"

Something sharp and hard dug into my side as a rushed voice whispered in my ear. I was jolted back to the present and shook my head, letting the scene around me fall into place. Mark – whose elbow had slammed into my ribs in an attempt to rouse me – and Jonathan to my left, Paul to my right. And Dan, creative director, in front of me. Dan. Crap, crap, crap.

"Sorry," I said, shaking my head again. "I was, er…"

"Away with the fairies," Dan finished for me, with an irritated look on his face. "Please try and concentrate, Remy. Are you or are you not a main feature in this show?"

I smiled apologetically and shifted in my chair. I hadn't been away with the fairies, I thought, as once again Dan went through the complicated set-up of tomorrow's season finale. I had been away with Dexter, reliving the times before he'd taken my heart and stomped on it.

"Remy." Dan was definitely pissed off now. "Tell me, if you can, what I just said."

In a panic I looked down at my notes, to find with surprise that I had written _Enter stage left and take new host Zack's arm. _I repeated this aloud, and this seemed to satisfy Dan, at least for now.

I'd met the new host yesterday, and he'd been nothing like Dexter. For one thing, he hadn't knocked my new phone clean out of my hand. That would have involved him actually coming three feet near me. Zack had shot me a look that clearly said, "Hello, unimportant person," and carried on his way.

"See you for Friday's show!" I'd shouted at the back of his head in some sort of embarrassed spasm, though he had pretended he hadn't even heard me. Well, that suited me fine. It wasn't like I was going to get involved with him, or anything. I wasn't going to get involved with anyone ever again.

My stomach lurched as I thought back to what I'd said. _See you for Friday's show! _The producers had moved the season finale up a week after the relationship between Dexter and I had been leaked to the press, in the hopes that they would still pull in big ratings before the buzz wore off. This at least meant that I no longer had to eliminate one contestant, and for that I was grateful.

The downside was that I had to eliminate two, and pick my winner. That was kind of hard to do considering I now knew all three of them were screwing me over.

Dan finished his talk-through, gesturing wildly with his hands to represent the fireworks that would appear once I'd chosen my winner, before sinking back in his chair and putting his head in his hands. "You may go," he said, sighing, and we left quietly. It was a badly kept secret that Dan felt he was under-appreciated.

As we stepped out of the room, Jonathan hooked a hand through the arc of my arm and pulled me to one side. This, I have to admit, threw me, and I lost my balance completely, ending up on my ass. Already I knew this was not going to be a happy conversation.

"Remy," Jonathan began, and to my horror his bottom lip jutted out in some sort of pout. He had got to be kidding me. "I have always hoped we have an open relationship, right?" Relationship was pushing it, I felt, but instead I simply nodded and waited for him to get to his point. Jonathan sighed, clearly uncomfortable, and then took the plunge. "Is it true, about you and Dexter?"

Even though I had been expecting it, I still recoiled a little and had to bite my lip from automatically biting his head off. Instead, I took a deep breath and said levelly, "That is none of your business, Jonathan." His mouth twisted apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he said, though clearly he wasn't. "You can't knock a guy for being jealous." And then, taking me by surprise, he leaned in so that I could taste the Listerine on his breath. "I'm really into you, Remy. Let me take you out for dinner so we can celebrate the end of the show. Are you up for that?"

Aw, geez.

"I don't know," I admitted, trying to take a step back and instead finding all I had behind me was wall. "I have plans with my family…" Lies, all lies.

Jonathan. "Think about it," he said, and he disappeared. Thank God.

I was just about to reach into my bag and call Jess – calling Lissa was risky these days, as she was still obsessed with Dexter, and I really didn't want to talk about him – when Mark appeared, in his hand a red rose. Clearly, today was a day for buttering up Remy.

"Hello," he said, in a manner I think he was assumed was suave. I had to choke down a laugh, and focused my attention on accepting the rose. Well, I wasn't about to turn down free flowers. "How are you, Remy?"

"I'm fine," I said, fudging a bit. I didn't feel like sharing my insecurities over tomorrow night's show with him.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" Mark inquired with a wink, and my stomach turned. I must have looked uneasy, since he poked me jokingly in the ribs – more gentle than earlier, thank God – and said, "Relax. It's an easy choice." He grinned again. I reciprocated weakly.

"Sure," I said. It was easier just to agree.

"Well," Mark continued, looking satisfied. "You want to see a movie tonight? To commemorate our time on the show, I mean. Not that we won't have time to see each other after, of course…" Ugh. Kill me.

What was this? I hadn't received this many date offers since the summer my boobs arrived. Clearly today was a last-dash attempt on the part of all three of them to win my affection. Or at least trust.

Since I was in need of more material to work with before I made my choice, I shrugged nonchalantly and said, "I'll think about it." Let's see what he made of that.

Surprisingly graciously, Mark nodded his head. "Call me later," he replied, and kissed my hand before walking away. Poof-poof, two gone like magic. One more to go.

And like clockwork, as I was walking down the corridor I was grabbed by a third pair of hands and tugged into an empty store closet. Before I could speak lips were pressed onto mine and I felt Paul's hands in my hair. Ah, finally. Someone who spoke my language.

"Paul," I whispered, dragging my mouth away from his. "Please. I think this could be considered as bribery."

"Is it working?" he asked, peppering kisses along my collarbone. I had to admit, my brain was going a little fuzzy. It had been a while.

"Maybe," I said, taking hold of his head and bringing it up to be level with mine. "Keep talking."

I know it was wrong, and that it was Paul – who was lying to me – but old habits died hard. I was hurting after Dexter had cracked my armour and then cracked my heart, and I was in dire need of being comforted. If Dexter wouldn't have me, then I'd take anyone. And as Paul's hands slid down to my jeans I pushed all thoughts of Dexter from my head and lost myself in what I knew best.

* * *

"How's the salad?"

I looked up from my half-empty plate to see Jonathan chewing on a breadstick anticipating my reply. I wondered how many adjectives _could _be used to describe something as nondescript as salad, before settling for 'fine'. His 8oz steak was already long gone, the plate clean. Mentally, I added 'human vacuum" to his list of attributes.

The conversation was slow, and I found myself slipping off into dreamland a few times throughout the evening. If I had found Jonathan barely bearable before, he was slowly declining into thoroughly humdrum. Personally, I couldn't wait to leave.

Once my plate was clear and the bill had been paid – Jonathan took care of it, as he should have done for such a sucky night – he offered his arm to walk me back to his car, as if I needed aid to walk. It was gentlemanly behaviour, I appreciated that, but it felt like a device to keep me in his company longer to influence his decision. But I had a feeling my mind was already made up.

I sank down into the passenger seat, eyes closed, listening to Jonathan's footsteps as he walked around the car to his door. Arching my back I stretched my arms down the side of the leather seat, fingers curled round the leather. The seats at the restaurant had been so stiff, I swear –

Wait.

My fingers froze as they closed around something underneath the seat. Something… silky. Edged with lace.

Ew.

I dropped the panties immediately, making a face as Jonathan slid into the seat next to me. I said nothing, because I didn't want to make a scene. Besides, it made no difference to me. It just meant that Jonathan was out. That was the last straw.

* * *

"There's nothing like a good chick flick, right?"

I raised my eyebrows as Mark said this. That statement was bordering on kiss-ass Ken behaviour, something I would have expected from Jonathan, not him. I just hoped that the rest of the evening wouldn't follow the same.

I'd called Mark as soon as Jonathan had dropped me home, eager to squeeze in as much time with my three suitors as I could before I was forced to choose tomorrow. I had just under 24 hours left before my whole life changed. I wasn't particularly enthused about fighting a losing battle – after all, whoever I chose would end up splitting the prize money with the others – but in order to save face I didn't want to make a fool of myself on television. I had to pick somebody I could at least be able to pretend I supported.

Mark was still watching me, waiting for an answer, so I shrugged. "Right."

We settled down into our seats at the Vista 10, where I had been sent to buy popcorn from a girl with braids – who seemed more interested in her cell phone than the five dollar bill I was wafting at her – whilst Mark had bought two tickets for the latest Matthew McConaughey. Don't get me wrong, I liked Matthew McConaughey. I just never pegged Mark for that type.

The film was O.K, as far as films go. The plot was predictable, the gags funny enough to titter at. The only thing was Mark's persistence in "accidentally" bumping my knee with his, and then using that as an excuse to whisper "sorry" in my ear. It happened several times throughout the feature, and I was thoroughly glad to get free of his touchy-feeliness once we re-entered the lobby.

"So," I said, working up my best cheery smile. "Thanks for a great night. This was fun." Mark rubbed my shoulder as he grinned back.

"No problem. It's been awesome getting to know you, Remy."

I took a step backwards, trying to evade him bit by bit. "Likewise, Dexter." I froze, realising my mistake as Mark's face twisted in confusion.

"Huh?" he asked, his expression goonish as I tried my best to figure out how to talk my way out of it. "What did you call me?"

"Nothing," I settled for saying, and adopted a sort-of 'what are you talking about?' look in the hopes that he'd assume he heard wrong. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mark."

And then I ran for the hills.

Turning a corner down into an alleyway, I stopped for breath. Well, whether I liked it or not my decision had been made. There was nothing left to do now except return home and get in a good 8 hours, ensuring I looked my best on television tomorrow. But as I prepared myself to return back to the main street, I heard a ruckus to my right and saw the back door of Bendo swing open, and three silhouettes come into sight. I shrank back, listening to their voices.

"… I don't care if he's having a tough time. He gets one more week of 'figuring himself out' or whatever crap he's pulling and then Dexter gets kicked out of the band." Ted.

"Ted…" This voice I recognised as John Miller's, higher-pitched and more whiny. "You know he's upset about losing his gig on the show." Asshole. Of course he didn't care about losing me.

"I don't care, he's being a baby. Where even is he, anyway?" John Miller made a noise like he'd started to say something, and then thought the better of it.

"I don't know," he said, eventually, but something told me he was lying.

"Well, like Ted says," Lucas added, shaking a cigarette out of his packet. "If he doesn't come back to us soon, he's out. I've been in a lot of bands and I know a band can't work without a lead singer. We need one, one way or another."

Then the voices started fading away as they continued down the alleyway towards, no doubt, wherever they had parked the white van. The white van was like their own personal Batmobile, stark-white with their band logo painted on the side. Once upon a time, or so Dexter had told me, it had been in poorer shape, barely holding together long enough to get them across the country.

I straightened from where I had been crouched against the wall, and started towards the orange light of the streetlamp. But a voice from behind me stopped me, and I jumped three feet into the air, heart pounding.

"Remy?"

Whirling around, I saw who it was, and clutched my chest. "Holy crap, John Miller, you scared me to death." He smiled apologetically, burying his hands in his pockets.

"Sorry," he said. "How much of that conversation did you hear?"

I flushed, knowing now I'd been caught. "Enough," I returned truthfully. "Dexter's AWOL, huh?" John Miller nodded. "Well, power to him. Coward." He screwed up his face, looking conflicted, before finally sighing.

"Remy?" he asked, and his mouth stretched uneasily. "I think we need to talk."


	11. Eleven

**I have to say, I love this chapter. Seriously. I like to think it has a kick-ass moment in it. But I'll leave it for you guys to decide.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviews and adds this story to their alerts! _The Dexter Show _is now my leading fic when it comes to alerts.**

* * *

_Eleven_

"So what's the plan again?" asked John Miller, as he trotted behind me. I was going at full pace through the inner workings of the studio, eyes peeled for serpent-like sound cords. John Miller, on the other hand had already tripped over three in his quest to keep up with me.

"There isn't one yet," I said, turning a sharp corner onto hair and make up, where my personal assistant sighed in relief at the sight of me, before casting a disparaging look in John Miller's direction. "He's with me," I said to her, and she sniffed. "I was thinking maybe just playing it by ear."

"As a musician, Remy," John Miller began, before he tripped over one final power cable – make that four – "I can officially recommend that there should be a plan B." I sighed, settling into my chair as my make-up artist began dabbing some foundation on my face, and slipping off my shoes. Definitely shouldn't have worn Manolos.

"I don't know, John Miller," I admitted, eventually. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to get myself out of this mess, O.K?"

And then I saw it – the expression I'd been seeing ever since the previous evening when I'd spoken to John Miller. It wasn't quite pity, or condescendence. It was more a stifled kind of surprise at the fact that I didn't know everything. Like it was entertaining to watch as I bordered on meltdown.

_**I straightened from where I had been crouched against the wall, and started towards the orange light of the streetlamp. But a voice from behind me stopped me, and I jumped three feet into the air, heart pounding.**_

"_**Remy?"**_

_**Whirling around, I saw who it was, and clutched my chest. "Holy crap, John Miller, you scared me to death." He smiled apologetically, burying his hands in his pockets.**_

"_**Sorry," he said. "How much of that conversation did you hear?"**_

_**I flushed, knowing now I'd been caught. "Enough," I returned truthfully. "Dexter's AWOL, huh?" John Miller nodded. "Well, power to him. Coward." He screwed up his face, looking conflicted, before finally sighing.**_

"_**Remy?" he asked, and his mouth stretched uneasily. "I think we need to talk."**_

_**I shook my head, and began to walk away. "Nuh-huh," I said. "I heard everything I need to hear, thanks." John Miller seized my arm and I whirled around. It was a policy of mine that whoever invaded my personal space deserved to have theirs invaded back… generally with my fist. But his expression stopped me.**_

"_**What's that look for?" I demanded, and he let me go. "What do you know that I don't?"**_

"_**You've got it all wrong, Remy," he said, softly. "Dexter didn't abandon you. He **_**saved **_**you." I felt a drop in my stomach.**_

"_**What?" I asked, and found that my voice had automatically fallen to a whisper. "What are you talking about, John Miller?"**_

"_**Dexter," he replied, with a casual shrug. "He quit his job on purpose so that you could stay, and win the money you deserved. He wanted you to go to Stanford, Remy." Of its own accord, my jaw fell open. **_

"_**He… he saved me?" I repeated, dumbly. John Miller nodded.**_

"_**Of course he did," he said, with that same look. "Because he loves you."**_

_**He loved me. Just like I loved him. Of course.**_

_**I looked at John Miller, and took his hand urgently. "What do we do?" I asked, desperately. "There's no way for me to win the show now, they're all against me! Dexter quitting will all be for nothing!"**_

_**John Miller only grinned. "Now, fair Remy," he said, "we steal the show."**_

"I'll see you later, Remy," John Miller said loudly, waking me from my reverie. "I've got, er, something to work out." And then, in the presence of my personal assistant and make-up artist, he winked at me. I couldn't help letting my head fall into my hands. The fate of my love life was in the hands of John Miller, who couldn't even get the rhythm to the potato song right.

I was doomed.

-x-

"Hey."

I was stood in the wings, waiting for the show producer to call me on. The audience seats had already been filled, the briefcase full of dollar bills adding up to $100,000 was waiting backstage to be presented. My heart was pounding a million beats per minute and I felt nausea rippling through me in waves, but there was no going back now.

"Hey," I replied to Paul, who had come to stand by me.

"Looking forward to the show?" he asked me, and I stared blankly back. Personally, I'd have preferred to eat ten bananas straight that step onto that stage, but I swallowed all my anxiety and merely nodded.

"It's going to be an awesome night." And then, like he had some right to, Paul snuck an arm around my waist and began kissing my skin beneath my ear lobe gently. I squirmed, and tried to pull away, but only encouraged him.

"Come on," he murmured somewhat silkily into my ear. "You nervous? I'll make you feel better…"

To my intense relief, I suddenly spotted John Miller on the opposite side of the studio, and slunk out of Paul's slimy grip. "I'll see you on set," I said, and bolted towards John Miller, who seemed surprised to see me.

"Remy!" he cried, making two ditzy interns jump. "What are you doing _here_? Aren't you due on stage any second now?" I nodded, ignoring the stares of the interns, and seized John Miller's hands.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I replied, hastily. "Do we have a plan?"

John Miller only looked smug. "Don't worry, fair Remy," he said, in that stupid knightly voice of his. "Just go with the show as usual, let what happen, happen." I felt like shaking him.

"Have you lost your mind?" I demanded. "Are you telling me you're jumping ship? _Now_?"

John Miller, blatantly ignoring my policy, placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me around, walking me back around to the other side of the stage. "Don't worry," he said, again. "Just trust me."

And then he was gone.

I had no time to panic, however, as then the lights began to dim, and I was called onstage by the stage management crew. I took my seat, gazing up at all those lights. Were there always so many? The studio audience began to cheer, a sure sign the show was beginning. Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God.

If there really is a God, please bless John Miller with common sense just this one time. Please.

I took my seat and exhaled, one smooth breath, as I tried to expel all the frustration I held inside me. And as the lights faded and the show began, I don't think I heard anything that Zack said. Season finale, bla bla bla. Remy's decision, bla bla bla.

"Remy?"

Oh my God.

The spotlight fell on me, and the audience fell silent. This was my moment, I knew that much from rehearsal, and watched in fear as all heads slowly turned in my direction. What was I going to say? It went without saying that I had no faith in John Miller. There was no escape now; I was going to have to pick somebody. Anybody.

Jonathan? The Ken replica; his perfect hair and perfect tan – so perfect it made even be conscious of my own appearance. But his sycophantic ways drove me insane, and I knew I could never forgive myself if I chose him as my winner.

I got to my feet, and shuffled towards the designated podium. Like a politician proclaiming reforms, I had to address my audience and inform them of my decision.

As soon as I made my decision.

Mark? He was charming, overwhelmingly so. Wandering hands were not something I normally put in the con column, but I couldn't count them as a plus, not in Mark's case. Mark was out.

I cleared my throat, and winced as the spotlight found me again. Oh, God. Here we go.

Paul? He was the only one left. And true, he knew my physical desires better than anyone. It had felt good to lose myself in him that one time, but that was when I was hurting, when I had thought Dexter had abandoned me. I knew that wasn't true now, and Paul's comfort – for lack of a better word – was therefore non-applicable.

Which left me with… no-one.

"Um," I began, but that was as far as I got. Feedback screamed back at me and then we were all plunged into darkness. The camera lights went out, the spotlight cast me into shade, and the studio filled with apprehensive murmurs. I whirled around, trying to make out shapes in the black, but saw no-one, until cool hands clutched my elbow.

"Remy!"

"John Miller? Did _you _do this?"

"Remy, how could you accuse me of such a thing? I am _appalled._" Ah. So I had been wrong to have no faith in him.

"John Miller, you saved my life." I wasted no time in throwing my arms around his neck in gratitude.

"Yeah, yeah, you can thank me later. It's time for you to go!"

I pulled a confused face in the darkness. "Go where?" I asked, and I knew John Miller had rolled his eyes even though I hadn't seen it.

"Remy," he said, slowly and deliberately. "Dexter's hiding in Hawaii. Where do you think you should go?" To my surprise as well as his, I released a squeak, before kissing him smack bang between the eyebrows and running back stage.

As I tottered into the wings, the lights snapped back on.

"Remy!" cried Jonathan, and both Mark and Paul turned around to follow his shout. "Where are you going? The show's about to start again!"

I thought for a second. "Where I belong," I answered, and I pulled on my coat. "Oh," I added, wrapping a hand round the handle of the briefcase filled with money. "And I'll take this. I pick no-one."

And then I bolted it for all I was worth.

-x-

"One flight to Hawaii, please."

The receptionist, no younger than forty, popped her gum and rolled her eyes, like teenage girls asked her that all the time. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she turned back to look at me, the corners of her mouth pointing downwards in a scowl.

"Next flight's on Wednesday." I sighed, and looked frantically around. The screen above my head flashed green as the next flight called passengers to board. As I read it, my heart jumped into my mouth.

The next flight was to Honolulu, Hawaii.

"I need that flight to Honolulu," I said, leaning over the desk. "Is it fully booked?"

Tap. Tap-tap, tap. The receptionist sighed. "We got one seat left. But sorry, hon, there's no way you're getting on that flight. That plane's gonna take off in ten minutes."

"No way I'm getting on that flight?" I repeated, and all of a sudden that briefcase I still held in my hands felt heavy. I was struck by an idea. "Not even for one hundred thousand dollars?" I asked, and she turned back to me, one eyebrow lifted.

I was in.


	12. Twelve

**I know, I know. It's been over two years. And I am very sorry, if there's even anyone out there still reading this! But here is the final chapter, hope you like it. I wanted to write a full-blown version of the final scene, but I got shy.**

**Please review if you read! I want to know how I did with this last chapter, as I'm a little rusty writing-wise.**

* * *

_Twelve_

"This is your captain speaking; please fasten your seatbelts as we begin our descent to Honolulu International Airport, Hawaii."

I clicked my seatbelt into place obediently and gaped out of the window at the spectacular views that greeted me as we dipped below a cloud. Living in Lakeview, a real white-sand beach was about as common as a good slice of pizza, and the expanse of golden luxury in front of my eyes was breath-taking.

It also beat looking at any of my fellow passengers, who weren't happy their journey to paradise had been delayed by forty-five minutes as the plane had been called back to fit me on. If looks could kill, I would have been dead the moment I stepped onto the plane.

The girl back in the airport, however, was very happy. She'd be kitted out in Manolo Blahniks for at least a decade thanks to me.

As the plane dropped even lower in the sky, I raised a self-conscious hand to my hair. I hadn't looked in a mirror for hours – what if I was hideous? Travelling never did anyone any favours. And this was my big moment, my end-of-the-movie declaration. I had to look half-decent, surely.

"Here." I turned in my seat to see the girl next to me handing me a brush and a compact mirror. "Not that you need it, but you might as well see it for yourself." She smiled at me softly.

"Thanks," I replied, taking them from her. "And, um, I'm sorry about the delay." She laughed.

"It's O.K," she said, and she waved her phone at me. "My cousin was watching the _R U 4 Real? _finale, she's clued me in." Her fingers flew across the keypad in response to a beep. "You made the right choice, by the way. All three of those guys were total douchebags." I laughed. That was totally the right word for them. She leaned in conspiratorially. "But that Dexter guy was cute. Are you really going out with him like that newspaper said?"

I sank back in my seat, examining my reflection. My hair, to my relief, was still in the hairspray prison from back on the set. "We'll see," I answered. That was anyone's guess.

-x-

The airport was teeming with excited holidaymakers, so I was able to disappear into the crowd without anybody noticing me. Even in Hawaii they got the show, and I didn't want to risk any further delay to my romantic mission whilst I still had the courage.

I didn't have any luggage to pick up, so I headed straight to the exit and into the heat of the Hawaiian sun. My heart sank momentarily when I saw there were no available taxis, until one pulled up onto the kerb and a businessman got out.

"Wait!" I cried, and grabbed the door before anyone else could. Sliding inside, I gave the driver the name of Dexter's hotel (John Miller had filled me in) and crossed everything I had – fingers, toes, my heart – that he would be there. If he wasn't, I didn't know where the hell he'd be. I just hoped I wasn't too late.

It was only a fifteen-minute ride, but with my pulse echoing in my ears it felt like a lifetime. Even the glorious surroundings couldn't do much to distract me now, all I could focus on was the words I planned to say when I finally saw his face.

"Dexter, I…"

No.

"Is it true that-?"

No.

Crap. I was just going to have to wing it.

The taxi pulled up at the hotel, and I paid my fare quickly, heading to reception in a bit of a daze. _Please let Dexter be here, please let Dexter be here…_

"Dexter Jones, please?" I asked at the counter. The woman behind it consulted her computer, before glancing up to meet my gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said, as she double-clicked the screen. "But he checked out an hour ago." My heart slammed into my ribcage so hard I was convinced I would have a bruise across my chest within minutes. He was gone. My Dexter was gone, before I'd even had chance to tell him how I really felt.

"Oh." That was all I could manage. Part of my brain really should have been considering how the hell to get back home, but I was consumed with grief and heartbreak. I'd really messed up in thinking he could have betrayed me. Why couldn't I have seen what he was really trying to do, that he was trying to protect me?

"Miss," added the receptionist, in hushed tones once her supervisor had disappeared. "I happen to know for a fact that Mr. Dexter liked the beach just in front of the hotel. He could be still there..." My frozen heart came juddering back to life. The beach.

"Thank you!" I cried. I could have kissed her, but I didn't want to waste any more time. I sped out of the hotel lobby and came face to face with the beach, a beautiful stretch of sand before the idyllic blue ocean. But that sight didn't compare to the one I spotted only seconds after – that of a man with dark curls, sat watching the waves roll in. That of a man I loved.

"Dexter!" I yelled, staggering through the sand towards him. My entire hard-to-get ethos was suddenly thrown out of the window at the sight of him in front of me once again. "Dexter!" He turned slowly, a confused expression spreading across his handsome features, which quickly turned to surprise when he recognised me.

"Remy?" He got to his feet only seconds before I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around him, holding him to me and never wanting to let go. The heat of his body soothed every emotional ache that had burdened me for the past few weeks, and I pressed my face against his chest, breathing him in to calm my thudding heart. "Dexter," I whispered. My Dexter. He was here.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, and his hands formed two manacles around my upper arms so that I was forced to look into his piercing eyes. "Why aren't you still in Lakeview? What happened to the show?"

"I quit," I said, simply, still aghast at seeing him so close after imagining him for so long. "I chose no-one." Well, that wasn't quite true. I added in a smaller voice, "I chose you."

The look of pure happiness that played across his face sent my heart soaring again. It was the expression I had prayed for, the one I dreaded would not appear. "I love you," he said, so determinedly that there was nothing to do but throw my arms around him again. "I love you, Remy Starr."

"Even if I'm poor?" I asked him, or rather, murmured into his chest. "I spent every last penny on that prize money on a ticket here." His laugh reverberated through his body and sent a tingle down my spine.

"You didn't," he said, disbelievingly, and he laid a kiss on top of my head. "Remy, Remy, Remy. What are we going to do with you?"

"Kiss me," I ordered, and he grinned.

"Of course, my jungle queen," he responded comically, before taking my face in his hands and bestowing the sweetest, softest kiss upon my lips. It was a kiss that tasted like salt air and happiness, and was beyond a doubt the best kiss I'd ever had in my entire life. He looked up in amusement. "If you didn't pick anyone, how did you end up with the money?"

I shifted my weight guiltily. "I kind of stole it," I admitted, and for the first time let my thoughts drift back to the set back at home. "With John Miller's help. I kind of figured they owed it to me after screwing me over so badly." Now I wasn't so sure that argument would hold up in court. "They're going to sue my ass off, aren't they?"

"It's possible," Dexter replied, but I knew his concentration wasn't fully in the conversation any longer. His thumbs were stroking my bottom lip and it was completely distracting. "But I have a plan."

"Oh?"

"You can be my back-up dancer to pay off all the lawyer's bills."

I laughed out loud.

"I don't really think back-up dancing is my area of expertise," I replied doubtfully. He lifted an eyebrow.

"No?" Dexter replied. He ran a finger down my neck, and my body shivered in delight. "And what, Miss Remy, would you call your area of expertise?"

I held out my hand.

"You'll see."

-x-

We were back at the hotel, where Dexter had promptly checked back in, standing before each other in his pristine white room. The bedding was white, the voile curtains were white, even the view that the window framed was white. It made the whole thing seem ethereal, like I had died and gone to Heaven.

Except no-one could be this nervous in Heaven. Whilst activities of the bedroom variety were generally my specialist subject, things were different this time. This was Dexter. This was love.

"Are you O.K?" Dexter whispered. The sound of his voice jerked me from my reverie.

"Of course," I replied automatically. There was no need for him to know I was suffering from stage fright. He placed a finger below my chin and tilted my face upwards so I was forced to meet his gaze. And then, at the moment my eyes met his, I wasn't nervous any more. Because of course this _was _Dexter. The boy who had shielded me from so much. He wouldn't hurt me now.

"I love you," I murmured, replying to his proclamation from earlier. My whole face was tingling slightly from where he had touched my chin. His hand moved to my shoulder.

"And I love you," he replied. He began stroking my shoulder through the material of my shirt. A sudden braveness filled me, and I moved his hand to the buttons of my shirt instead. "Are you sure?" he asked me. I nodded. I hadn't been any surer in my entire life.

His fingers dealt deftly with the buttons, caressing my collarbone as he did so. Even the most mundane of motions he made lovingly, reassuring me with every touch. He slipped the shirt off me, and then removed his own. This was it.

"You're beautiful," he said. And then he kissed me.

Afterwards, I lay in his arms with electricity flowing through my veins. I had done that before, so many times, but never had I felt like that. I was safe, I was secure. I was in love.

I smiled to myself, and sat up. Dexter swept an affectionate hand across my back, and I turned slightly to kiss his fingers, before pulling the bed sheets up to my chest and getting out of bed. Wrapped in white, I pulled the double doors back to the balcony and leant on the railing, examining the amazing view in front of me.

I wouldn't have believed it, all those months ago, when my mother had signed me up for that goddamn show. Her idea that it would restore my faith in love, that it would make me see that there was more to life than meaningless encounters, heartbreak and separation, seemed as ridiculous as it did futile. But somehow, and not in the way she had intended, it had worked. I knew that I had loved Dexter all along, as much as he had irritated me in the beginning. He had broken down my defences and now he had my heart. And what was more, I knew he wouldn't break it.

Whatever lay ahead when we returned back home, I would deal with. It wasn't the end of the world. But for now I decided to make the most of this paradise, this tiny piece of heaven in bed with Dexter.

This was for real.


End file.
